And it begins




And yet I have been caught off guard.

It seems to come from every direction


I sat the other day under a willow tree

It boughs swept over

down to the ground

Weighing heavy on blades of grass as if

They expected them to hold up their hopes

And send them soaring in a wind

Coming from the north

And taking August with it.


I would have expected this

From somewhere else

But not you.