How doth an August day soft-fade
Like mist, sun-kissed and echo-frayed
In sunflower and loose-strife spires
In vibrato of cricket-choirs
In zinnia rainbows scattered where
Our step is slow and toes are bare
As dust and heat-sweet lazy haze
Winnows the street of August days
How doth an August day grow dim
And drain the summer of its vim
In moment-masterpieces blurred
In flit of finch and hummingbird
In orchard-fruit and garden fare
In poetry of yellow pear
It strums willow and poplar arch
And runs its touch o’er corn-field harps
...in full-moon halo, canning jars,
In blue lakes straked with silver stars
It falters in a mother's sighs
On altars beneath blue-some skies
In marigold and floppy hats
In lemonade and late-day naps
Soundless, it seeps from here to there
As silent streams wane summer's air
How doth an August day become
Peaches and cream, a purple plum
A splash upon bronzed avenue
In watermelon, rain-song, dew
It strips clock-ships of laughing hours
And scatters days like tattered flowers
While children clap and dash and play
There go-eth, go-eth August’s day
© Janet Martin
