August, all ready
Without being readied—
Only the pitching of
Peach pits,

Bruised tomato divots,
Tossed towards
The cherry trunk and
Gobbled up by grass, gone!

Gone, too,
Corn silk,
Garlic skins,
Filament husks,

Carried on the breeze
Through the red bud leaves,
Invisibly eddying,
Cooling bare legs.

A yellow-legged tree frog,
One eye gold,
One pupil-less eye

Fetched, full-handed—
Whitman’s summer,
Onward and outward,
Spread across gingham,

And death is bowls brimming
With plums, pears,
Peaches, tomatoes,
Diced garlic, and hot peppers.