-This poem reflects on August dust as a sign of high summer wearing toward its later days, where heat and dryness begin to turn fullness into something lighter and more fragile.
By late month the road wears pale,
its edges dry beside the ditch,
and every step along the lane,
lifts powder from the beaten ground.
The fields have kept too many suns,
the grass turned coarse in heat and light,
while fence posts lean through thinning green,
and leaves hold still above the drift.
No storm has come to lay it down,
no deep rain darkens what it covers,
just this fine residue of days,
the season loosening into air.
So much of high summer ends here,
not finished, only wearing thin,
the brightness staying on the land,
even as it rises into dust.