August
It’s the time of year that steals away slowly
as the red clay road, its banked tire treads,
spackled with crushed grass, trades rust for bone;
The air, blurred by heat, full of the blaze
of ephemeral wings, rises from earth.
Then comes a quickening, as the slip of sun
sinks into shadow, lengthens the poplar’s shade to touch the porch,
And slits of light trapped in arching arbors of ruddy foil
merge with the slurred grey of twilight.
Light empties itself in one last sigh
of blood-speckled orange,
And racing across the dying August fields,
black envelops the world.
Rachel Fogarty is a freelance musician, composer, and poet in Astoria, NY. Her poetry can be found in Ancient Paths, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Willawaw Journal, and Time of Singing.
