while a symphony of cicadas
sang narratives
in summer darkness
she wanted nothing more
than to be like August

as a kid
she carefully colored
within the lines,
but often pressed too hard,
and now finds herself hating
the way her poetry nearly
bleeds through the page

but there are nights
when August is stretched
across the windowsill,
demanding life from
the quietest corners
of her mind

daring to ask
what might have happened
if the lines weren’t so thick
and who exactly dictated their curvature

but before she has the chance
to part her lips,
he is always pushed aside
by a timely chill
and replaced with the
come-and-go
of foliage and falling leaves

re-enter
the twisted comfort
of September

she closes her window
the darkness
is silent