June is a blossoming, a testing of freshly wringed wings. July is cottonwood ethereal one minute, thunderstorm electric the next. Things get hazy in August, s   l    o     w like dripping honey. August is a lazy crawl to the end of things, the weight of things, the last gasp of summer air before Earth begins her next trick: falling apart to come back together. August is dewed grass, hydrangeas in heady collapse, respite from rain, a final bloom, monarchs releasing and spreading their tigered wings to the south. August is willow tree wisdom, an understanding of endings and youth, cerulean blues that sprawl into pink and lavender sunsets, nostalgic dusks, then endless stars plunging through the surface of Lake Nokomis. One last trip to the seaside, one last chance for walking barefoot through the woods, splashing through the creek, a silent prayer that we’ve sown and grown and nurtured something worth reaping.!– Your poem content goes here –>