Veranillo de Membrillo
(Spanish people find September to be very sad:
they call it "the little summer of the quince".)
Somehow, the silver birches simply know.
This splendid heaven, pure refulgent blue
can not abide. The grass fronds, stiff as glue,
like swifts and grillos, uninclined to go,
are troubled by the carking of the crow.
It’s autumn, and the rains are overdue.
A corpse whose hair improvidently grew,
September is deceptive afterglow.
At dusk, a silence falls across the close:
the trees stand tall and motionless, morose:
now unobtrusive, heretofore verbose:
tart evergreens like laurel, tamarind,
immortal olives, silver in the wind,
sing “adios verano, adios!”
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