August leans in close,
its dew-stained breath no match
for the fawns who are still young enough
to leap through knee-high blades,
unencumbered by the warmth.
Perhaps we are still young enough
to join them before the wildflowers doze.

It strikes, not with a gale,
but with a drizzle of cherry blossoms
and a flurry of gentle chords.

The galaxy dances above the ether,
and the moon smiles at the melody,
knowing all the while
that it was written
just for her.