Ode to August

By a great lady named Lana who wants to kick her shoes off.

L.T. Garvin

Let’s set the latitude to swelter

I’ve never been

your frozen angel

I’ll caress the

Rose of Sharon, white faced and rosy-cheeked

with its leaves going limp

withering in the stagnant heat

I won’t call foul

even with the decimation of squash

the brittle leaves

brushing my fingers

Instead, I will meet

the cinnamon-headed girl

for tea on the porch

speaking freely

of such scorching things

As the blaze of summer

surrounds us

on a hot August day

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