Mid August in our town
Softly speaks to us by
Uttering not a sound.
Brick solid signs of ol'
And molded trappings of
The not so very old;
A canvas painted sweet
Where shadows of the past
And tomorrow do meet.
Summer's heat is cooled
By stretched out shadows
Of pre-night etchings, blue.
Asphalt and graveled lot
Bring notions of stillness
And life nearing a stop,
While youth of tree-lined street
And the life it implies
Does of the future speak.