William Michaelian: August Days

August days
are a recipe for longing:
they bring scented dust
and dew, the first
nocturnal kiss
upon veined leaves
that are beginning
to resemble
my mother’s hands.

Though much
of summer lies ahead,
autumn is creeping in,
feigning patience
with vineyard rows,
gently coaxing
the fruiting bough,

Soft the yellows,
purples, reds,
soft the folds upon
her unmade bed,
soft the light
on her faded gown,

My mother holds
them in her hands,
until they wither
and die upon
the ground,

Then wonders
where August days
have gone, and forgets
the ones she’s found.

August 5, 2005