After August

After the hiss of Mistral,

Pendulums of geese arc overhead in a slow white time.

Cicadas die down in the shadows of linen fields,

And silver steps of scythes deliver rosaries of frost on gold of cut hay.


After August,

Afternoons become remote in the wizened day.

The affairs of men are mostly empty.

Wolves and angels come down at evening to the crumbling lamps of the village.

Stars and night curve around your silent face.