The heat scours the landscape
and the humidity wraps itself in my hair,
creating damp ringlets against my neck.
The rustle of desiccated leaves,
scratching the dry itch
of the hot southern breeze,
is all that’s left of the garden.
Rooms remain darkened,
shades pulled
against the late afternoon sun,
with only the sound of the ceiling fan
in the drowsy halflight.
It is August
and the summer has been long.
thecourseofourseasons 
Perfectly described—love it.
loved how you started outside and brought us in… almost an invite
Whew…I can feel the heat. Just left a comment on your interview over at PU!
That’s a vivid description. It would not apply to the August I’ve known here in England, and I almost envy you. However, you are very persuasive: your summer has evidently been long!
Yes, and yet I feel the season turning and wonder at how fast it all goes. I do adore fall, so it’s all good.I can feel the heat in this poem, the dryness, the drawn blinds….. Here, too.
I always thought August ends up looking a bit straggly. Mother Nature gets weary. Expressed and Illustrated well in your verse 🙂
Beautifully written. I can feel the heat slowing everything down…even though we are having a cool August here in Germany, your poem reminds me of home in the Midwest, and my garden there. 🙂 I love these lines: “The rustle of desiccated leaves,/scratching the dry itch/of the hot southern breeze,/is all that’s left of the garden.”