August

Is my least favorite month. And yet one of my favorite novels is titled August.

Dying hot in August heat
takes all of us
for a few days.Lavender
falls over like an old man
did too much for many lovers.
Our green lawn, gone.

Days die,not without
fuss, during the full moon
more golden than any harvest
moon, a thunder-lightening event
boom sizzle melt metal
on The Space Needle.

Darkened closed up rooms
we sleep hard dreaming of
garden hoses like garter snakes.
Evening showers revive wilted
hydrangeas, ficus, dahlias
survive the blaze blazing.

Cleaning beets I've cut
my thumbs, like a one two punch
deep slices.Buttoning shirts
hurts, pushing on the round bit,
through the eyelet, searing like
a death in August.