Augustember

A poem.

Augustember Trying to invent another summer month,
I coin a name for it – Augustember.
Trying to hold onto it,
my fingertips turn coppery, slippery
as the powder from a monarch's wings.
Last evening was murky; wild moonflowers
opened wider to make their own light.
Tonight, fish silvering to the surface
ravel stars in the cold black lake.
A loon's blue vibrato plays my vertebrae
like a vibraphone, fingers the frets
of my visceral guitar strings, wavers
in my waning warmth. Late September bows
to autumn. Suddenly I'm older.
Glenna Holloway

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...