I am hollow with petals of August.
My thoughts form deadened fields,
even before the sun is opened full.
The air hangs humid, in tarry slabs.
Bricks of heat are savage
against backs, across faces,
While garden plants lie listless—
fading, faded—their lips pursed.
At least rain threats bring variance.
It hasn't always been like this:
There were years the sweat would tap dance
on vulnerable skin, not cling.
But now the world's awry;
and the Texas summer doesn't quit,
just blurs itself into the fall.
—Pebble Lake Review, Summer 2005
Augusts can be brutal here, even when we're not officially in a state of drought. Two more months, two more months, I tell myself.