Dear season of endings,
shaming sun of suns,
knee to chin, biding,
waiting under your half-care,
half-light of the mountains
you will hide behind.

It is better to stay silent when summer passes,
to leave the wreckage in August’s heavy hands.
It is better to wait—
until the last cicada clicks off.

The fields can go to seed for all I care.
I wait for cold winter winds
to wind their way up my sleeves,
to shake my being from summer’s memories.

It is better to bury sadness beneath winter.

—Augustus Rivers