August In Texas Poem
By Dennis Lange
The clouds are scarce across the sky;
The blue is light, sun-washed, and dry,
Bleached like the faded jeans of youth,
And wrung and robbed of all its truth.
But seasons change.
The grass is green, but not the green
Of spring, or life, or fresh, or clean.
‘Tis green of age like wrinkled skin,
When August earth has hair that’s thin.
But seasons change.
The birds of beauty hide in heat,
But ones that circle aren’t discreet,
In search of death upon the land
Where hot air shimmers on the sand.
But seasons change.
Tomorrow is like yesterday,
As indistinct as bales of hay
That dot the drying, dying fields,
When stacking days have fewer yields.
But seasons change.
We wish for rain to make us well;
But though it’s hot, it is not Hell.
And that’s the thought that keeps us sane,
That soon or late, these days will wane.
Here, seasons change.
