I’m listening to Brahms,
those somber passages
of the Clarinet Quintet,
and posed on my lap is a page
of sober verses from Mary Oliver.
As the days are inexorably shorter,
every thought seems poised,
to point me away from August,
and tonight, outside my window
the cicadas are in full concert,
a movement towards autumn,
a diminishing, a farewell;
but who can say
if this is a lesser gift?
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