i wonder where summer is going
and why the hostas’ trumpets
wither in the song of the morning gold
the moisture saturated early september air
will soon surrender to hoodie worthy chilly days

and hosta trumpets will disappear
and silenced shrills that once inhabited
golden shells gently rest
bearing witness to the symphonies
that played endlessly on measureless summer days

but now summer’s bags are packed
the trees wait and will soon honor summer’s passage
tossing golden and crimson leaves
in a reluctant celebration
to the closing of summer nights and songs
and to welcome the crystal air of winter’s refining lament