August nights can be sweltering affairs.
Summer heat this time of year
can stew, stagnant and stale, dank
as the vegetables grown ripe too early
in gardens that once seemed lively and lush,
now listless and lank in the sultry air.

The month has the feel of compromise
and yield, as we mark time in a steady march
to the inevitable surrender of fall.
But that moon!
Bright as a bauble
dangling from a necklace of stars,
it hangs overhead like a trophy sturgeon
in the cool depths of sky, awaiting its waning
in glorious gold, igniting dreams once more
of life treasured, of bounty restored.


© by Mike Orlock.
Used with the author’s permission.