August is wise enough to lie down and wait,
like a dog panting watchfully for its master
until the grass grows up around his paws.
This year the master will not return- he sickened and died
over the course of a short sweet summer,
from complications of a broken heart and too many lies and sugar.
Watching the lost dog is akin to feeling an old wound
when the barometer is low, an ache in the feet or the hands,
that brings memories- heat lightning and trellises made for climbing.
She will watch the stars come out and the stars rise high,
and she will watch the dog turn and go,
and August will pass by kindly, awaiting its turn.