August
♦
August dances through
a swath of harvested cornfields
its costume is copper
♦
its song the guttural intonation
of rasping leaves
its choreography the nimble steps
♦
of a long and practiced mask.
On first-name terms with the wind,
it knows how to mine dry tonalities
♦
from its wet and wayward ways,
dredging little laughters
from the depth of sunless seasons.
♦
Thunder sleeps in its mouth
lightning zigzags in the
calligraphy on its palm.
♦
Peeping through greenhouse windows
in the house of the sky
wondering how many rains will
♦
douse the fires of our careless cravings,
it eavesdrops the grey whisper
between the tumbling shower
♦
and the waiting roof. . .
♦
Said Sky to Earth, his wife,
“Be my love, not my lover,
Let’s hide behind this shower curtain
And dance the endless dance. . .”
♦
August heard it all
and chuckled like a tickled rascal.
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