August. . .
It is August and there is
a sliver of breath inside the sill.
The deep breath of autumn is, I think,
a matter of time; perhaps only in the memory
of the child anxious for the world
of new books to open.
Anxious for the toys of summer
to be put aside to make space
for new thoughts.
An old lady now I am
but still waiting with anticipation
for the long, dark nights
to be filled with time.
It is necessary. It will take an entire season
to adjust mind, body and soul
to a new way of thinking about who I was. . . .
and now who I am.