An August Thing To Do
This could be the last life
I'll ever live.
I'll pick the strawberries for breakfast,
While the day wraps me
In its fold, like a blanket.
Then I'll dig the potatoes -
An August thing to do.
All about me hover the moments
Like late hatchlings of June bugs.
The strawberries ripen in the sun.
The potatoes sprout
And beg for soil.
I plod on through the day
Until the sun sinks in the sky.
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