days drenched in fog, grass slick with dew
a scrunched nose, eyes,
hands, fists,
and sweat so sweet you’ll wish you'd bottled it
raw bloody knees and fresh mosquito bites
orange juice thick with pulp,
damp hands and peach fuzz and a dry, white sun,
and oh god
the air smells different today; this week; this year
it’ll smell different tomorrow again, and the next day
different again, and again and again and
again.
clumsy and slow under the new sun,
you close your eyes,
feeling it slice through the sky like a hot knife through butter.
on this day,
this yawning laze of a day,
this sleepy, bumbling, mess of a day
this caked-in-sleep, rapidly-fading-dream of a day
this open-mouthed-kiss of a beautiful morning
you have no choice but to observe
you watch a soft sun stretched gently over the garden
stretched over the flowers,
the cosmos, the tulips, the peonies,
the thornless, browning, burning, blush pink roses
over the wisps of fog and tiny dandelion florets
and the leftover moonbeams caught between their seeds
glowing like a firefly, fat with happiness
you breathe-
in and out,
just as the trees do
just as the sky does,
and bid farewell to august once more
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