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

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