Time Stamp
To genuinely feeling

the August of things.

Stand, feet planted on the warmest kitchen tile

seconds and seconds pass.

When did I stop noticing the wind?

Scent of tomato leaves lingering on fingers,

Mingled into the bouquet of pink wine.

Sweet, sharp

forgetting.

Blueberry ink,

Crusty perfection of bread,

Half-hazard slabs of brie.

Afternoons breathing quietly into afterevenings.

Oh Susanna! sells 50-50s.

Nectarines served up warm, with a dash of sideways light.

Ode à août.

To the next chance,

To the replaced peace,

and to summer's imagination,

I aspire.

Everything is growing.