This one by George Bilgere captures precisely what I feel every, single August. Just as I've hit my summer rhythm, just when I know summer is sailing along and the world can do no wrong, that fateful day arrives: the season shifts, I sigh heavily, and I go in search of just the right poem.
I found it.
by George Bilgere
Just when you’d begun to feel
You could rely on the summer,
That each morning would deliver
The same mourning dove singing
From his station on the phone pole,
The same smell of bacon frying
Somewhere in the neighborhood,
Just when you’d begun to feel
You could rely on the summer,
That each morning would deliver
The same mourning dove singing
From his station on the phone pole,
The same smell of bacon frying
Somewhere in the neighborhood,
(Read the rest here.)
Here are my past posts featuring George Bilgere. (Some of the old links there are broken, but you can find all the poems I've mentioned or linked to here, at the old Writer's Almanac site.)
Here is his website, and here's a link to his Poetry Town newsletter (a daily poem delivered to your Inbox, with a few words from Bilgere.)
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18 comments:
I've written similarly this past week of falling for August's trickery. When will I learn???
Gorgeous poem, Karen. What an ending!
Ah, August! The month I am always most eager to get thru! Summer being my least favorite season, you see, with Autumn my favorite with Winter in a near-tie …
I never learn either, Patricia. 😄
I know, right? The ending is so relatable and poignant.
Your favorite season is coming, elli! :)
Just when our rhythms are established and all seems well . . .
"There comes that morning when the light
Tilts ever so slightly on its track,"
And we're forced to make our way to new rhythms and routines.
I'm always glad to kiss summer goodbye and ready to embrace fall!
The only thing I don't like about fall is that a Nebraska winter will follow. :)
Sorry, auto-correct - ugh! Thanks for introducing George Bilgere, Karen, & for this very truthful lament. I love the swimsuit line, much because my daughter was just lamenting that her daughters, 13 & 15, will not be able to wear the numerous swimsuits she bought for them this summer, & off they go to the sale bin! We are much cooler today. I wonder if the weather-gods know you shared this poem?
Karen, yes, that ending! I was reading along like it was just talking about August--enough of a universal feeling of summer's end. Then to see someone else's hand shifted the poem to life itself. Beautiful poem.
Linda, the weather-gods never seem to listen to me one way or another! :D
Denise, yes, the ending kind of walloped me, especially since, when I look at my hands these days, I see — more and more — my mother's hands. :) ❤️
Thanks for introducing me to a new poet, Karen. August is playing tricks on us now, giving us just a taste of fall. Enticing.
I love George Bilgere! He absolutely captures the end of August perfectly...and the end of the August of life when your. hands turn into, say, your mother's hands, and what you've always dreaded (the knobs! the bends!) becomes somehow beloved.
Love this poem. I wasn't familiar with his work. Thank you for sharing!
Karen, just when recent days were floating in with low humidity and fall-like signs, nature flipped a switch for muggy days and high temperatures. Thanks for Bilgere's poem. "
A cool gust out of nowhere
Whirlwinds a litter of dead grass"
Last Thursday we had a fall-like day but whooshing across my feet were curled leaves dancing.
Oooh - those last few lines, especially. Thanks for sharing, Karen! Happy Almost-Fall??
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