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Let the last of the summer drip slow and sweet, like the honey that glistens under the sticky song of the bees. And let the last of the summer slant long and low onto the shivering skin of the whispering trees. Let it take time to unwind like the sweet potato vine, its open hearts relentless reaching, and let it stay in the hay that rolls wheels of gold in the sun-sated fields. The last cuckoo counts the heartbeats of his song, and the crickets take the season’s pulse at dusk; but there is still time for a last deep drink of drought, a last long walk in white shoes, a last long linger while he slips sunflowers like kisses into my hair. This is the encore— the summer spins like a dancer, into the sway, and the fall.
I'll admit it—August is my least favorite month. By the time the eighth month arrives, summer has gone on too long to still be fun, but fall is still far away—or at least, for those of us who live in more southern climates. But what is poetry if not a vehicle for looking once more at things we don't like and attempting to find something beautiful about them? That's what I've done in this poem, with the hope that I would not only reframe my perspective of this month, but also become more comfortable inhabiting the liminal space it represents.
My poems are always free, but if you’d like to “buy me a coffee” (basically a virtual tip jar), you can do so here!
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