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
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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.