Light in August

I live for this hour’s light
pattering through the garden trees,
golden sources
rising through the grass.

Every place has it’s light;
here already taking on
summers’ last humid sighs.

Not the earnest, hammered promise,
of home’s light
that rises through
August’s moistureless vapor
cracking, blackening
into the pale
silhouette of
September’s false release.

By bonniemcclellan

Mother, poet, american ex-pat from Texas living in Northern Italy.


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