Self-Potrait as Late August Evening
1 Minute Read Time
I will be gone soon, and with me, summer.
These warm breezes fleeting; the beauty I have
is the beauty of all things that disappear
before you know you’ll miss them.
Each mood—sultry and scorching, mild and balmy—
changeable as the rise of the moon’s face,
one moment blue over cornfields, another
orange over the treetops, or red dropping over the sea.
No one loves August—we all long for September,
her sweater sets and the chill of her rain—
though the end always comes, an unwelcome surprise.
Through the still air, the wings of birds rustle the dry grass.
I am waiting, heavy as the apple tree branches weighted down
with uneaten apples, turning the air sweet and rotten.
Read more from Issue 15.1.
