The Cruelest Month
T.S. Eliot said April is the cruelest month. . .
But he was wrong.
August is by far the cruelest.
August with its sultry cloak,
Oppressive shroud,
Baking under the
Relentless sun.
Can you feel it?
Can you smell it?
Don’t go outside,
Not if you value
Your composure;
Not if you value
Your tranquility.
August is a thief.
But September. . . ahhh!
September is a promise.
Tiny hints of delights to come:
Ruby, bronze, ochre.
Hurry up, August!
Be gone,
Your days are numbered.
Copyright © Ellen Gwaltney Bales | Year Posted 2022
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