by Squeeky Fromm
Sometimes in August, the Summer’s Breath
Blows from the North, with a hint of Death.
Something cold, for just a moment
Spills the Truth, lets slip the Secret.
Whispering to you so indistinct,
So brief, you shudder. No time to think.
Blowing around you, then is gone.
Nothing quite to put your finger on.
Yet somehow, the Summer play
Can not continue the same way.
The ending of the Story told,
Too soon the warmth will turn to cold.
Too soon the young will turn to old.