it weightlessly
tugs on your mind
that perhaps you've been
hunched at one
task for too long,
the last day
of August comes
nosing around
to quicken the pulse
of this shaggy,
wistful midlife.
Like a gentle, loving prod
from a cool,
wet muzzle
it provokes
a quick shiver—that first
twinge of September,
and a portent,
without any basis
in memory,
that Death,
in her glory, is certain
to return here—
not as the heiress
of this mild,
mangy beauty,
but rather, once again,
its hospitable
mother.
