August August August August.
You roll her on your tongue
She is sweet
And heavy, unfiltered honey.
Goldenrod in the fields
Mats of cool seaweed at the low-tide
Mudflats
Windows down in the old car
With no AC in the bastard sun
Hot-stone august sun
Drizzling cicada-buzz sundays onto the Year
And one or two cool nights,
To make up for it.
The earliest trees drop their earliest leaves
And
You're always halfway into something
Stumbling on the doorframe into september
Wishing the paint would peel faster
Next year you swear
You'll really taste it
The last fresh kiwis
The first fresh apples
Pomegranates to come -
But not yet.
August August
August
August.
She is a marble between your teeth.
You spit her out and wait for her to roll around again.