August

Smoke clears
Sky becomes crystal
Sharp with no soft
Summer fragrance
No Bees humming
No Fresh tilled earth
No New growth
Slice you like
A ripe tomato
Cold then hot
Dusty with no
Promise of flowery
Reprieve only
Promises
Of slow die off
Followed by
Rot to frost
Delayed gratification
After heavy labor
Cheating you into
Longer nights
Weary with more labor
No brilliant oranges or yellows
With green and emeralds
Sapped away
Dry to the bone
Scratching brown earth
Willing earth to turn
Faster spin faster

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