Fading

August, you escape me.
Your heat and light disappear
into the vegetable garden;
into the parched grasses of the field
and the promise of lush lawns.

How I resisted
capturing summer
in a jar like fire flies--
let it drift by my window
at midnight--

not holding on to anything

only the observer
of this fading--

this folding in
on myself.

These dirty feet
carelessly soiling
the clean, creamy sheets
of cool comfort,

exhausted
by so much
heat.