August

August

It is no easier to escape August
than January – late summer lassitude
bows the asters, curls the sunflowers
just as the blizzard quiets winter.

My hammock is my sled
hurtling with frogs in first fall of alder leaves,
swinging over plums fried on the patio,
watching the squirrel choose soft figs

over peanuts. Mornings come cooler,
it’s all good that sheets flap in this dry wind
from the east.
The rake is closer to my hand

than the snow shovel. Over-burdened
tomatoes fall over, coneflowers list
as if wanting to seed
is the gravity of this hour.

Where cucumbers are pickle size,
the green beans are summer’s icicles
on a green vine with heart-shaped leaves.

And I am weary and wary,
snug in rocking,
knowing
also winter.


Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet whose community garden this year produced a huge stand of sunflowers that are about twelve feet tall. The package said “mammoth” and they were right.

 

[image: August garden scene | janicelemon793]

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