August is the crescendo
of cicadas at dusk
when the sun retreats, victorious,
to its darkened corner

It is heat filled air
too humid, and yet
welcomed,
in the way
only frigid winters allow

It is large white flowers
at the peak of bloom
And gardens requiring water
by intervention

It is the embrace
of life, as once spindly fawns
stride in step
with the herd

August is large
and luxurious
and lyrical