Old Summers

By the very first days of summers of my youth,

I always heard, every year, the song of a bird.

Never had I seen it, solely hearing its sound.

It was a pheasant cuckoo hammering two whistles,

that all of us, by no error, so listened:

summer comes!  summer comes!  

Like a live version of the clock’s cuckoo, it warned,

to the most unwary ones,

that had begun the most desired and expected season.

Its chant is lost and our days will never be the same

without that hammering dear beat.


Published in Indiana Voice Journal, August 2016 issue.


Published in Highland Park Poetry, Summer 2017 issue.


Published in West Ward Quarterly, Summer 2017 printed issue.




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