The dandelions have all but lost their yellow,

each seed-head windmill turbine, a gene pool

flailing fluff. A flock of Shakespeare’s fledgling starlings

lilts across the park’s parched brown, teasing

the toddler, closing in on pudgy legs, clutching

empty palms. This year I’ve x-ed the EX,

opting instead to say farewell to summer

foraging lest I be caught in fall

the cicada begging the lowly ant for crumbs.

A marvel (pardon the pun), how this fable

starring two pint-sized apostles of the kingdom,

that meant so little (merely a reading lesson once),

has turned literal allegory as September comes,

for though august emancipation is long gone,  

in two weeks’ time,  as Mum would say, my ‘free paper burn.’

©Cynthia James – August 2015