August Earth

September 6, 2010

August ends, at last. You can see a tree
under a canopy of apple trees.
You can see a frog in a ditch.
…and just enough
water trickles off the porch roof, enough
to keep the soil and skin intact and moist,
enough to keep the earthworms quiet.

I’m standing by the oak tree that
my father planted—what?—some forty years
ago. I’m not thinking of him so much right now
and I’m not thinking of the tree either.
I’m watching the new sprinklers spray
the grass. I’m not sure why; I just like it.
You can stand there right in front of
the tree and not get wet. The spray has left
a watermark, though, a ring underneath the bark,
as though the rain could reach up through the grass
and leave a secret sign…

The snails of summer crawl across the lawn
so slowly. So even while you are
on a train to Chicago—
it is September now—
I  can still reach up to pull you down
to earth. You stay right here.
You can never leave earth in August,
not with her skin and soil so engorged.

Advertisements

2 Responses to “August Earth”


  1. “So even while you are
    on a train to Chicago—
    it is September now—
    I can still reach up to pull you down
    to earth.”

    the poem has an ambience of sadness to it, or maybe just feeling. feeling to much. and summer ending, so inconsipuously, so slowly trudging along. like snails.

    great piece 🙂
    xx

  2. extrasimile Says:

    Yes, I wanted to slowly get to ‘engorged’. Frogs, earthworms, snails and ‘you’.
    Thanks again for the perception.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: