Tonight, the brisk nighttime winds
and the shrinking sliver of a moon signal
the unwelcome arrival of a new month.
August is hovering like a shadow I can’t beat,
with its aggressive behavior and insensitivity
to these sacred yet fleeting moments of summer.
What I have here, in late July,
has been special with the sunset-painted
skies and the comfort of his embrace.
There will be no rewinding time back
to these damp morning walks along unsettled
brick and music-filled nights on city rooftops.
I try to hold on, sit a bit longer
in the humidity of each passing minute
turning into a moment I’ll soon want back.
August closes in, reminding me of the soft touches
I’ll miss and the purple blurred sunsets I’ll soon forget.
By Claire Furjanic