Literature
An Old August
I watch you
cutting strawberries
in the amber afternoon,
sun on its midway
to autumn;
you won't let me help
because secretly
only half of them
make it to the bowl.
I smile back
at your playful eyes
because
you know.
It feels like
an old August,
in my stomach
some sort of sadness
some sort of joy.
Last night's thunderstorm
has left the ocean agitated,
wildly
beautiful.
Life is nothing
but a vacant place, today
and we shall
let it be,
let the world
wait for us, today.
Cross legged
on my piano bench,
I play for the cat
a winter Debussy
she's happy,
I could tell
she smiles.