Late August
I feel the chill of the Birth Month
that kills the season of the drop top meanders in firefly fields,
rhythmic beating of bugs against flesh,
soaking golds and sparkling reds
a richer filter, an exquisite endlessness that terrifies in the permafrost,
but stirs a chorus in the vibrato of the cicadas,
a crescendo rustling through the cattails that arc over
the banks, like a dome in this sphere of the unkempt and the sacred,
the spontaneity we choreograph-
is this forever,
or is it finally September?
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