August Ink

There’s something about August ink

It never drains the poet’s pen

But bleeds in cricket-song and gold

And begs the poet, ‘write again’

There’s something about August ink

It probes the poet’s in-most part

As bronzed suggestions of farewell

Begin to swell deep in the heart

There’s something about August ink

It runs where tousled gardens lie

In reams of green, gold, red, orange, pink

A color mass beneath blue sky

The ink of August does not beg

But twists its verse in flower-vines

It taunts the poet in her bed

To grapple with its half-writ lines

There’s something about August ink

That keens a lump within the throat

Because the poet kens the hints

Which wean the thread from nature’s coat

© Janet Martin