31st
The trees stand absolutely still,
leaves too lethargic to wave to anyone,
sunlight draped across the deck
as if it fainted there and can’t get up.
Feeders hang devoid of wing
and chirp; the wind
has sped ahead to more ferocious
months. Poor August, caught between
the splash and squeal of summer,
the pregnant backpacks and obese gourds
of fall. The month we plod through
on our way to virgin crayons
and intimate evening walks,
the subtle touch of someone’s hand.
It’s even burdened with this extra day.
No cars scuffing the blacktop.
No dogs protesting letters floated
through the slot. Even the ginger cat
lies belly up in the uncut grass,
not an eyelid lifted as the vole
in his wooly coat chugs by.
9/1/09
Guillermo Delgado’s Untitled #16, 2010, mixed media on wc paper, 6” x 12″
The Secret Lives of Things 
Loved the poem. It made me slow down and lie in the grass with the cat. When I came to the painting, I found myself slowly scrolling down its long, narrow length.
Thanks Carol!
Beautiful. Thanks.