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August is a good month.
Fields are filled with 
grain and farmers,
sleek, languid cows
watch with disinterest
the frenzy
that will keep them 
alive through the 
driving snow.
Life has begun its
annual turning over,
that suspended existence
between seasons of
drama and intensity.
Souls, too, are unsettled,
in that sort of discontent
that has no source or
purpose other than
to prepare to sustain
all that is already here.
Categories: Poetry