The virus is devouring the planet For us who took meandering, Nearly at will, As the way our world spun; We who are blessed With generous measures Of strength and possibilities Wandered our neighborhoods And far beyond As means allowed And inclination prompted.
But now a trip to choir practice Is an act of courage, daring, Perhaps irresponsibility, Endangering others, Harming those I love.
How could a time, Decades, have been When for us— The blessed ones Not living, or enduring, In famine, poverty, infirmity, Subjugation, or war— Only time and budget impeded Our exploring the globe?
And now we avoid trains and planes, Restaurants and theaters, Gatherings at church and school, And touching one another.
Throughout the eons, Lives have been transformed, Darkened or destroyed; We feared Earth’s annihilation By inundation or asteroid, But our present world and ways Are trampled by a microbe Unheard of when the old year Stepped away a season ago, Ceding time and space To a new decade holding hope Now dying, But seeking resurrection.
For me, August is a month of change. It is a time of coming to the world and growing older, of awakening to sun-filled hot, blue mornings filled with blossoming, burgeoning life. And also for me, August is a month of meeting loss and death.
I was born in August, and on the August day that I marked fifty-five years of life, my infinitely dear father died. In the years I lived in the North Country—in Maine and in New York near the Canadian border—August was a time of transition for Nature, too. Wind stirred the lakes, a few leaves turned red before their time, and most nights called for warm blankets and flannel nightgowns.
In “North Country August,” autumn tunes up its season of change. In this poem, I welcome the coming of autumn’s pared-down beauty. I will never cease grieving my losses, above all my parents and other dear ones who have gone on ahead. Yet while I struggle to keep the confident outlook of the poem’s last stanza, I vow to embrace its peace and optimism, as best I can.
North Country August
A large brown duck with orange feet stands on a log by the creek
And then swims upstream against the current.
In the smooth water, a perfect duck looks back at her.
Crows call between the dead trees of the swamp.
Reeds and low brambles hold an early fall dryness,
While the scraggly petunias in window boxes still remember spring.
A monarch butterfly tastes purple phlox.
Chattering chickadees fly in to feed on sunflower seeds.
The sky is clear, but the mountains are lost in haze.
The Earth waits for change.
Along the fence roses bloom, with buds forming
As if the month were still July.
Would I want to live in July forever?
August is Earth’s send-off to subtler days ahead.
How lovely it will be to sleep soundly under my blanket.
Already the Sun is setting earlier,
With evenings that give more time for reflection,
Fewer demands to be out doing.
One glorious fall morning, the snow geese will fill the sky
From horizon to horizon.
Then snow crystals will sparkle in cold December air,
And mists will rise until the lake is frozen.
The first reawakening will be the birds on a March morning.
Ice will boom in the warming Sun,
And the seagulls will congregate on the flows by the ferry channel in glorious reunion.
The silent flight of herons, with their long dancers’ legs, will herald summer,
Spread before us once again.
I was born in August.
Each year of my life closes then.
But as my season of birth,
August is the beginning for what is still to come.
My spring will not return in this life.
Yet I choose not to see August as summer’s end.
It shall be my passage into vivid autumn colors,
My transformation into the clarity of September’s blue skies.
I shall warm myself in the cool evenings by my own fires
And by the fires of losses turned into memories
And regrets into experience.
I will, like the roses of autumn, bloom in beauty and tranquility
With no thought of the frost to come.