August

The knowledge of August

resists the senses,

resists the crystal flakes

of snow

that wait in the sky

yet to be discovered.

How wrong it is to gaze

upon summer

and long for another season.

A chill.

A meditation in moonlight

reflecting nothing.

A building in the wind

full of nakedness.

Raincoats left behind,

drying ever so slowly.

I hear the insects come

thirsty

for new flesh. 

And I listen

to the pretty misery

of the toad’s song.

For now,

green is everywhere.

The rest

must wait.