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.
Tag Archives: August
another Fool’s Autumn
the air doesn’t smell right
the colors at sunset
still burn summer
appreciate the respite
soak in the cool morning breeze
Tell me again about the remade world
Late summer is a mind oscillating at fever pitch
Solace is a free bag of Idaho potatoes
Do not jump at shadows they are only here to watch
The mountains are calling but it rings the wrong number