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Pam Olson

I Remember August

I remember August:
that breathy space before fall;
the long slow arc of the sun
touching the northern horizon.

I remember August:
its dampness confined to fog
pulled along the seashore's edge
and into the bays and rivers.

I remember
silent waves rocking small stones:
shifting, slipping, and sliding
sibilant sighs and whisperings.

I remember
the hay lying cut and straight,
drying in the summer sun
waiting for the baler to come.

[...] Read more

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