July 15

In the wild place I walk
there are no new green discoveries.
Everything is finished, still,
awaiting dimming of the light.

Days pass from morning tooth brush
to evening so routinely, and
summer ends quickly here.
By August there are already unkept promises
and questions about the depth of the heat.

Soon things I look forward to
happen and pass,
hours familiar as old friends.
Each fresh day says hello and almost
simultaneously with a whisper
dies.