Summer's Paradox
"Another day, another dollar;
a day late and a dollar short."
Here summer comes early.
Mostly, it never really leaves.
Here there are fresh-faced
children -- but they will change.
Boys will ripen to close
copies of their fathers --
those many sullen somber
silent men. Girls will mimic
still their mothers, aging
early in summers' petulant,
pervasive, potent green.
Here hopeless men will not
expose, in words, their griefs --
since there will always be only
the harsh monotony of each
tomorrow's changeless green.
Around sun-reddened weary necks
hang heavy burdens, weighty worries
never lessened, the endless summer's
cruel paradox: how such paucity
of hopeful human spirit festers
in the midst of profligate abundance,
this all-enveloping, overgrowing green.
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