Whispers of the last summer

The rhapsody of July lingers,
The summer storms still roll their drums,
The sun with fire on its fingers
Turns grapes to crimson as it comes.
The dawns arrive in hues of fire,
The evenings burn in rosy flame,
Mid-summer slipped beyond the wire...
Yet still, the season sings its name.
In silken scarves of light she dances,
Till dawn, she hides in night’s romances.

And yet the skies are veiled and hazy,
The sails of heaven rushing past,
The winds grow wilder, sharp and lazy,
They chase the clouds, they fly so fast.
The maple lets its gold leaf tumble,
The first to fall, a fleeting sign,
It lands on grass in emerald slumber —
A whisper: Autumn will be mine.
It lies, as though the leaf is knowing:
“August… already feels it showing.”

But August still will gift us hours
Of wonder, warmth, and violet skies,
Of starry nights, of blooming flowers,
And orchard scents that sweetly rise.
The ripened apples fill the garden,
Their fragrance stills the breath of air,
The season’s gift — its final pardon —
Grapes glowing amber, rich and rare.
Then summer fades, its song is fleeting,
An echo… softly, slow, repeating.
Softly… echo…

Text Elena Belova
https://www.neizvestniy-geniy.ru/users/65377.html