AUGUST

 

 

We are alone again,

 children and friends have come

  and gone, a hush of sage

 

wafts through the air,

 I sew a button to your shirt,

  it’s August – placid, fair.

 

You’re writing in your room,

 looking up now and then

  to stare at the nasturtium

 

and lavender I planted by the gate,

 for their gold and purple thrusts,

  their sedulous reaching,

 

and when I bring your old

 frayed shirt to my lips,

  cutting the thread with my teeth,

 

I hold it there simply

 because it is yours, and has

  our smell, familiar and common.

 

I press the denim against my face,

 tasting the air in it, the sun,

  and realize how light it is,

 

how easily it could slip

 out of my hands, out of this moment —

  how the smallest distraction,

 

the slightest inattention

 could leave me here alone,

  with nothing but my face in my hands.

 

 

 

 

 

© LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR. PUBLISHED BY PERMMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.

 

Preview - The Hour Between Dog and Wolf

(c) 2016  Laure-Anne Bosselaar

www.LaureAnneBosselaar.com