In late August
There is an odor of menace.
Green machineries still function.
But leaves here and there
Delineate their shapes in brown edge.
Flower petals desiccate, drop, disappear
To leave behind the pregnant tip
Swollen with prophesy for the coming year.
Shafts of heat still lance from the Sun
But unsteady, unsure of power.
The sky enrobes its blue
In gray smoking towers.
Itinerant short rains
Punctuate with a sometime thunderclap
And a gleam of blue light
As if a huge and heavy door
Blows open momentarily
To reveal an angry fate