A poem from this AM's bike commute

No one, it seems, has told the cicadas.
But almost imperceptibly over the past day or so
the maestro's baton has insinuated
the end of summer.
 
It sounds as if they may have missed their cue --
that subtle hand motion to the orchestra that ushers in the kind of morning light
under which one could easily imagine planning a day of
apple or even pumpkin picking.
 
Their late-August buzz collecting in the treetops to say
that they are generally unconcerned
that enough leaves have begun to fall
to make wispy, swirling piles on the sides of the road.
 
But as sure as my garden is brimming with a surplus of
Brandywines, Jet Stars and Ramapos
taunting me with their delicious burden,
summer can not persist solely
on the unyielding sustain of the cicadas
who may (or may not) simply be ignoring the maetro's baton.

Tagged poetry
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