August

In August

The heat slaps your face,

wraps you in a blanket of blue.

Dusty horizons mock the clouds:

wispy puffs drift miles apart.

In August

The cattle in Kansas

lie upon the pasture

like fleas on a dog.

Knee deep in muddy brown.

Chew, chew, chewing.

In August

techno windmills

crowd pieces of sky

piercing blue,

skewering white,

impaled upon the sleeping giant prairie.

In August

your dusty Ford,

a Falcon in disguise,

plies the streets of memories.

August is memories.

Summer climbing down.

“What was said.”

“What was left unsaid.”

In August, sentences start, stall,

In heat like tractors in a field.

You can’t bundle

When you’re spread so thin.

In August,

you did what was right.

Your hand, gentle upon my back,

guiding me tenderly,

safely, as a 25 mph school zone.

And you showed me a children’s library.

In August

The door closed.

Halted in a hug,

where I tried to say so much

in just a touch.

In August

it rained.

Windshield wipers smeared insect guts.

Eyes following the sideways,

drip at the corner of the eye.

August leads to September’s death,

Sinks to October,

Through November.

December

When snow lays heavy on my heart,

And ice crystals fuse my eyes shut.

January

fogs caught upon trees,

webbed,

waiting.

February has fantasies

of locked bedroom doors.

Conversations whispered against skin.

Short days blown

by lion's breath.

March and the Ides-

a little death.