Late August leans in, burns the gills grown
in a sweaty July. The garden groans.
Let the yard grow; it’s a slow death
give the crab grass it’s moment
under the excitement of an unrelenting sun.
Late August leans in, burns the gills grown
in a sweaty July. The garden groans.
Let the yard grow; it’s a slow death
give the crab grass it’s moment
under the excitement of an unrelenting sun.
This is such a good poem. Capture the bittersweet nature of August perfectly. 🩷