Why does the heat feel different in September?
How does it know
that fall is fast approaching?
The numbers on the dial are the same
but the air feels softer on my skin.
It doesn’t burn and oppress
like the dog-days of summer do.
Do the bees know, I wonder?
The same ones buzz around
the same clover.
Can they feel the change in the air?
The light is different too,
the colour richer.
Everything gets washed out
in the summer’s sun.
It’s quieter today.
I no longer hear summer’s sounds,
kid’s laughter, lawn mowers, frogs and ducks on the lake.
How did I not notice things changing?
It’s amazing, what everything happens when
you aren’t paying attention.
(Yes, I know it’s not September but I took poetic license. It’s been a long time since I felt any poetry. I suppose I should try to write some every day, get into a groove, but it’s never worked that way. I write poetry when the spirit moves. It hasn’t for a while, that’s all.)