August one and sweet gum leaves,
enough to notice, are falling yellow
on wilting grass. The air is dry;
the parching season; joy does thirst;

I crave a single meager bliss:
a sip of wine, a furtive smile,
but for now this cool wind gift will do.
August two and insidious privet

tentacle roots spit depleted red-
clay clumps at me. I fight to claim
a needed though paltry victory
before winter’s cold, harsh truce.

August three and butterflies flood
their namesake shrubs decoding
nectar’s notes on divine law while
breeze and chime synch our requiem.