August, it seems, is a time for dying,
trapped fireflies buzzing in jelly jars
thieved from the sky where they blazed -
fourth of July sparklers in end summer flight.
Us, running in circles at twilight under the damp Texas sky
wearing down the sharp green monkeygrass and breathing in
the air perfumed with rotting plums we smashed with dancing.
Brother chasing sister chasing brother chasing ghosts.
They wouldn't come outside, but watched us through the window.
Counting summers backward I arrive at the time when,trading in my navy saltwater sandals for sturdy black oxfords,
(my feet now flat from the weight of growing taller),
We started to divide life into Then and Now.
August, it seems is a time for dying,
slapping bugs against sunburnt legs
hiding out on the rooftop beneath the weeping willow and
staring out into the faint evening shadows as bitter voices
float out from the bedroom window.
They wouldn't come outside; we sat alone.
Heaven was higher then, roads were longer, the horizon wider,with a back door that opened up onto the Western frontier;
just you and me, pencil-thin flashlights pointed toward the stars -
trying to make a mark, but humbled.
