-This poem reflects on the dense, fragrant air of late August, where warmth, memory, and the fullness of the season seem to settle over everything at once.
The morning comes already warm,
its breath too full to call a breeze,
the porch holds yesterday in wood,
the garden wears the night’s last heat.
The air moves slow through vine and leaf,
thick with basil, earth, and rain,
not falling now, but held between,
the promise and the memory.
Each step asks something of the day,
the body answers without haste,
while even distant hills appear,
drawn nearer by the heavy light.
So much of high summer gathers here,
not only in the heat itself,
but in the fullness carried close,
until the whole world seems to breathe as one.