the blanket of august
Between spring and now, I’ve been held in the hazy stretch that lingers around August.
I have been all wrapped up in the memory of August —
a big blue blanket spread wide across the season,
with edges brushing against July and September.
Inside, I sleep, though never deeply.
Awake — with each small glimpse of dreaming.
I toss. I turn.
I sob, and I stay — I always stay.
Each movement pulls between then and now,
visions of a life not yet begun.
And when I wake, it is still August,
and I am still spent.
I am the sole witness of July:
one leg tangled above the covers,
arms stretched long and restless.
The fabric strains with every fidget.
She is too hot, too cold —
unsure of her own season.
She wants to settle. She wants to sleep.
And now, August spills into September —
slowly, gently, inevitably.
When had this month begun?
Just when I think it can’t stretch any farther:
still, it holds;
still, it pulls.
August stretches —
from July into September,
and I, too, pull — and do not break at the seams.
xoxo, anna