Poetry
August in Pennsylvania
July’s hot iron lifts leaving a warm blanket of earth and air.
Everything is still.
Green has stopped growing but isn’t yet dying.
Grown-up corn stalks have dyed their light hair dark for the show.
For a few weeks each year all of life is suspended in fullness.
The Earth is the artist and August her exhibit.
Crickets provide the music with shrill songs of winter to come,
While tree leaves still play in the warm sun like children dancing in the wind,
September not yet painting pictures of fall on their faces.
The calendar has turned like the looks on people’s faces,
They carry more resolve now than hope like they carried in May.
Adults know cold is coming. Kids know school is coming,
But no one talks about it because if you don’t,
Time also stands still.
In August, all life is Earth’s art in full.
Piqued at a pinnacle like a roller coaster,
It’s clicking paused for a moment as it sits at the top.
For a few weeks in August,
Everything is still life…
Exhibits of Earth’s show.
