Golden rays mute

in denim skies

as a whispered coolness

sickles the air

In front of

Wal-Mart

beach chairs and

gas grills

huddle together

like trembling refugees

While everywhere

wary children

in pretty, shiny clothes

assemble

on street corners

hugging uncracked books

For you see

bold and noble

August

has fallen

torn and toppled

His page

sea-sawing

downward

to join its

discarded siblings

on the stony floor

Feeling again

a harbinger

breath,

I dismiss

the chill

Only to

resume

my poetic

duty,

cataloguing

each veiled

and vexing sign

September
By: Mark Melanson