sizzling, transitory, mysterious
moons in August slap you, do not love you.
change is a food for the gods, for my little self.
Gone. Each freshness reaches a peak.
Every counting of wildflowers ends.
Count the berries on mountain ashberry.
Each little bird friend...each little seed
Will we survive the winter?
Fall is five minutes long.
Hence, my love.
Born in August
explains a dilemma
I never figured.
Neither here, there
Ah, this then is a good thing.
Your smile graces a leap.