Matter of Weeks
another summer poem
Matter of Weeks
With a weight I can’t describe
as anything other than August,
haze hangs in a pile
creased by a contrail. Further,
find a wall of goldenrod
around a shed open to weather—
scab-red roof beaming through.
Held breath holds us here,
held to a word, where we think
we’ve arrived, as an incoming storm
serrates the haze. One horizon
for another—exchanged.
Very nice. August is always such a bittersweet month-the end of summer means relief from the oppressive heat, but also signals all those summer plans unrealized.