Notes About The Poem
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AUGUST
AUGUST DAYS
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Air is heavy with the scent of ripened fruit.
August days, like golden coins, disappear as quickly as a pirate’s loot.
The trees, nature's own cathedral, stand tall and still,
their leaves, a rustling hymn, to the whispers of the wind's will.
August's heat, a fiery passion, ignites the soul,
preparing us for fall, the season of abundance we often extol.
August's nights, a velvet cloak, wrap the world in shade,
a time for dreams and magic, when the stars are magnificently displayed.
The fireflies, like tiny lanterns, light the way,
as crickets serenade, clicking their legs together—their mating cliché.
August, a month of earthy wonder and enchantment,
one that is transformative and transient, filled with seasonal contentment
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