August when August enters cradled in the curve of the moon, the trees sigh, brown spots on their leaves, fingers reach toward the sunlight, remembering the dance of summer leaps, a firefly’s flickering closed.

there’s a smell of grass crisping, waiting for the rains to stir, waiting for autumn’s whisper, the golden light that comes, a hushed goodbye beneath heavy branches, yearning for the sky, yearning for the careless years.

Anne Waldman

• Anne Waldman