Late August is not summer in arrears;
It's September that marks an
equinox.
Yet, the wasps have grown mad from
The barmy
wave of heat and fuss...
Sizzling
cicadas sing non-stop,
Poppies
bloom and wilt
In Augusts'
incense;
The sky
grows rich as
Butterscotch
pudding...
The shade provides no pretense.
poem by L.P.-G.
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