Late August

My melancholy mood loves

The late August, when

A few leaves are turning yellow

The still air is

Crisp, but sometimes sultry

The sun shines

Lower in the sky

The waning of the summer

But not Autumn, yet

It is the waning that affects me

Like early baroque music

Which is really the waning of the renaissance

I swear I love late August

Even more than summer

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Perpetual Spring

As I age, the world ages with me

As it always has

Things I treasure go out of style

Live music, blues, jazz, the symphony

Peace and love

Mozart went out of style

And nobody knows where he is buried

Who performed for princes, kings, queens

High art, technique, form fail

Churches dwindle, consolidate, close

Zoroaster, Moses, Jesus shrugged off

They follow Zeus, Apollo, Heracles

 

There is no perpetual spring

There follows summer, autumn, winter, and spring again

As I autumn, I can’t see spring again

No, I don’t see spring

I will be leaving this world

And I look toward another

And as my world dies, perhaps it is well that I also with it

I think less of my legacy than I do my potential

In my autumn I see perpetual springtime