At first blush, it seems a mere blot on the calendar—
Wedged between the heroic hoopla of July 4 and
The start of another workaday year around September’s
Labor Day. People in their prime have disappeared from workplaces,
Taking their camping gear, their beach bags, their teenaged offspring
And their air-conditioned vans with them elsewhere.
Those of us left comfortably behind are only a little envious.
We loll lazily on lounge chairs, or float face up in bathtub-warm
Backyard pools, while grills entice with odors of slowly broiling brats.
Vintage music plays at local festivals–Beach Boys, Beatles,
Sometimes even Sinatra. Bocce tournaments bring out the
Men in white. Parasols make a temporary comeback.
The furious scandals of pre-recess government seem less
Pressing for the moment, the final few tomatoes extra juicy.
August is not regal, not “august,” its aspect instead laid back.
Sharing vowels with its mood, August is languorous.
Before the rushed tumult of impending autumn,
Such languor is both welcome and sorely needed.
Jinny's Occasional Poems 