August

August was for love and betrayal. One morning you woke to find the sad white handkerchief falling. Betrayal is a strange freedom for the betrayed. And the handkerchief floats gently earthbound. A woman came and went in August. August, a month of rising and setting, of waking to sharp blue eyes, alone, your own, in the crooked mirror. Black from sunlight and dirt, you look back like those forlorn faces on railway platforms staring after the disappearing train. A hand waves from a window. Someone is always waving good-bye. You've gathered as many good-byes as Napoleon had stars. You greet them like distant friends. One morning the woman you love will leave you. It is perhaps as necessary as the air you breathe. Days pass. Your pruned spirit lurches toward the turning season.

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