Sonnet XVIII

It seems unfair to ask a summer’s day
to stand against the majesty of you.
Its gold and green shall all have withered grey
while ochres deep and violet your hue
remains neath starlight and the cosmic swirl.
The summer heat too soon is gone to chill,
while within you new galaxies unfurl.
And summer breeze will one day become still.
But on you race; you will never slow down,
speeding, ceaseless to some eternal end,
while summer’s pace wilts sharply into brown.
You rise, billow, in each direction wend.
You remain – though ends Earth and seasons fair –
beyond the edge of what we can compare.

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