Should April be the cruelest month,
then August will do us in, all
the sparks flying from sun off water-
igniting the tinder of past loves and losses.
Bright lit corners along the curbs,
deprived of dark mystery and lovers,
beneath the trees shake every last leaf
of memory down upon us, blown along-
the whisper scraping of what once was
and what is,
mumbles of the summer wind,
foretelling the winter and
of what might have been.
We curl up, dying daily
beneath that scorching summer grin, infatuated
with the hopeful light and cloudless days
only to find fitful rest
between the roots remembering
the once green life above us. Gone
the hyacinth and lilac, gone even now the lillies,
sere. You are the last vestige of your own desire.