The End of Summer

August is a terrible month,
a hot wind from hell
turning sand into glass.
But the latitudes are tilted
at twenty-three degrees
bending times and places,
and September comes on
with her cool-glistening-steel
permitting me to turn
to my romances and endurances,
my October, my November,
white fancies, cold fancies,
and December's dreams
piled up in the meadow,
an annual affair that saves my life.

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Volume 2, Issue 19, Posted 6:10 PM, 09.16.2010