Let August be on Woodrat Mountain Road, Jane Kenyon

Gravel Road

Let the dust of a gravel road

mask the reddest of red poison oak,

Twining the Douglas fir, reaching for sun.

 

Let the yellow jacket suck

the juice of a rotting plum like a drunk

suckling his bottle.  Let August be.

 

Let the chrysalis on the milkweed fall

beneath the blade of the county tractor,

the Monarch disappears. Let August be.

 

Let the ghost of my dogs pull me up

the road, tangling their leashes, tongues lolling.

Let August be.

 

To the Bud can in the star-thistle, to the buzz

of the junction box, to the beat of a heart.

Let August be.

 

Let it be as it comes, as it will always be,

life sliding down. Summer whining

in the cicadas, so let August be.

 

By Barbara A. Meier

 

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