My August flies by down the street of summer, like an anxious maple leaf
brightened too soon
headed for the pond
where it will soon lie at the bottom
with a hundred other memories.
Why does time
like a wind
pick up in August?
Maybe it’s just my imagination
fueled by the approaching blackboard
feeding on the thrilling anxiety
of another school year.
I’m determined to let my mind
be starved of its fears
so that the tumbling speed of my August
no longer bothers me.
I need only look at the memory-covered bottom
of the pond of my experience
to see a thousand leaves of anxiety
decomposing, losing form.
My task is to enjoy the tumble
of my crisp, bright August
and to let it sink beneath the pond
when Autumn calls my name.
I hereby official proclaim you the family poet. (Dad and I are perhaps runner ups). Are your words headed toward a book of some sort? Beautiful pictures and words to behold.