August 9

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Saltwater, watermelon,
and sunburns,

but not nearly
as brightly hued,

only imparting
a slight warmth

in the dark cool
of this room.

This,
August’s largess.

The lifeguards
shout at the boats

that pass too close
to shore,

slow dow! slow down!
It can’t ever last

this effortless state,
these ripest days,

this most seasoned
of seasons.

I peel a piece of bark
from the red Madrona tree,

set in the dry grass
before I leave.

 

 

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