Nothing happening that has not happened

All nature helps to swell the song and chant the same refrain;
July and June have slipped away and August’s here again.
~Helen Maria Winslow (1851–1938)

August Here Again

and an early fog rolls it over like an underslept log.
I listen for the usual meadow murmur: this sounding
that; that calling out this. Nothing happening that
has not happened in fifty-eight previous Augusts.

I might paint today, or strum strings to break it up.
If I walk out now, I can stand unseen in the middle
of that meadow and let it all swathe me in nowness
for that is the only different thing about this August.



It arrives to arrive, promising nothing, expecting less
than that. You may meet a woman who excites your
body, but leaves you lacking in the seat of your soul.
You might think this would be enough, but you know
the truth of it, that a seabound river has far wiser plans.

Now the meadow is lifting off, crust and earth tearing
away from the underground scattering gophers, quail.
I watch it hover, bleed roots and worms, as if this
happens every day. Slowly it disappears into gray
and I am left to fill the hollow mercy of this hole.

Joseph Gallo
August 3, 2010