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.