The End of Summer

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?

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2 Responses to “The End of Summer”

  1. This reminds me of the smell of the burning leaves at the curb in Detroit, when we were still allowed to rake up the leaves that fell and burn them in the street. That one scent sums up the end of summer, the return to school and the sweetness of autumn like no other.

  2. I love this poem. Edgar captures just how I feel at the end of summer. A certain aroma fills the air, some berry or flower, and that’s when I know summer has come to an end. Thank you, Edgar, for your poem.

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