The End of August

by Camilla Jean Welsch

Around the time
when the summer was getting to feeling late again,
I wore my long red skirt
with a t-shirt,
in the morning,
as a breakfast guest,
with yet wet hair.
And kicked a small ball
to my nephew,
on the drive,
my coffee cup a little off to the side,
which was helping to delay the need for food,
being laid out in the dining room
by my sister, in the house.

The dog, meanwhile,
laid himself in the greenery,
where the yard still has
a small semblance of a forest,
and serves as a cool camouflage.
And, indeed,
no one could see him under the foliage,
but only by nearing and squinting,
which made us laugh.

It would reach 80 that day, at maximum.
And the tender, bright sun
and the cold dew on the grass,
bespoke of it:

The end of August.

And, I say,
there is something brilliant
in its receding
from the summertime,
like a cold, clear wave,
hitting sand that has been heated all day,
and now in the evening,
foams
as it runs away,
and joins
the bigger body
under the sky.

And there is an unbearably good
sense of nostalgia.
For it is beauty that is running away.
But we can still see it,
if we look a certain way…

How I felt as I wrote this one this morning 🙂


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