fall - flowers2

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.

7 thoughts on “August

  1. 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!

  2. 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.

  3. 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.”

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