An August summer, still full in bloom,
stretched wonderfully, endlessly ahead,
moseying along
through childhood’s carefree days,
like a long, slow lazy river,
leaving so much time,
so much time,
to play and swim and bike and run
and get up and out just whenever.

Whenever the sun,
or the ice cream truck’s song,
or a wonderful book’s promise of adventure and escape called,
our younger selves answered with unbridled delight.
We jumped joyously into those moments,
frolicking in the freedom
of all that August offered.

Long for forgotten
was school’s constricting structure,
homework, just halfway understood,
the unease of encountering
barely friendly peers.
Autumn’s solemn, sober voice
lay eons away,
unable to penetrate
even the edges
of that vast unending universe of
August’s easy laughter and
and tumbling runs
through woods, and
brightly anticipated
family vacations
with an exuberant new puppy,
and parents unburdened
from a few weeks of work,
and brothers and sisters
just as high as any other kid
free from the stormy business
of school.
In August,
the mere thought of September
did not even exist,

until now.

Now, when the days rush
fast and furious
towards deadlines and inescapable duties.
The calendar, a constant companion, calls
even in August, and wants to know,
what meeting, what appointment, what financial concern
will demand attention
five weeks, five months, or five years from now.
The lingering taste of some responsibility,
the whispering scent of work to be done,
now lightly taints the purity
of what used to be
the boundless, unfettered joy
of childhood’s August fun.