The end of the summer is here again.
I feel the same melancholy I have felt
since I first knew summers ended —
the melancholy of the crickets’ valiant singing
in the early coming dusk,
the melancholy of the boy who soon must return to school —
the melancholy of the summer’s end.
I wish that I could be again
eleven years old in the backyard
watching the night come early
and feeling the change in the leaves
the crickets can’t sing away.
I wish I had to go back to school —
so I could be eleven years old again and dread it.
Why must I like the crickets grow old?
Why must I like the summer end?