59 Times

hard to know just how / but you know august when you see it / the bridge you cross that leads you here from july is barely noticeable / but somehow you know you are in a different place / the desperation of september is not yet upon the land / but the lush june rains that nurtured the july corn are gone / the intense sky / the verdant leaves / the golden shafts of light

it is imprinted by now i guess / 59 times i have seen the summer slip southward / in the thunderous night and the silence of the dawn’s red redemption / but now / with every passing / i become more brittle / more like the furrowed fields beyond my dusty dooryard / now / with a growing sense of sadness / as if this turning is a fading yellow miniature of my life

i shall take up my labors still / here in the thick broad haze of late summer / i shall hold fast / i shall burn like white phosphorus for an hour / i shall impregnate each supple day with my essence / i shall wring out every drop / like a remnant

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