I only have five minutes

 I only have five minutes, 
before I have to return to my dull duties

so I wanted to write something brief

on how useless it is to mourn the end of summer.

I bought a minor poet's volume,

rescued from a county doctor's library,

mainly because of the old jacket.

It is no iron voice or slow blood to be found here

and seep into the feet of ages, a fascinating tincture.

Yet someone read it,

in quiet nights of a small town, decades ago,

when the order was another.

Some bullshit about lilies and nards,

a healing plant I am told,

and stars for the loved one. Yes.

And found some pleasure.

And then someone cleaned a house

after an inheritace

and got rid of that book and many others, I presume,

for a pittance. Old man's dregs.

Away with that.

Still, though, the little book resonates.

My land, my fields,

their tremors still were mine, back then,

the crystal of rivers, yes.

I can understand and still hear it.

The words may be bad, the emotion is genuine.