Agosto

There is a blue fragrance, essence of dusk.

The smoke of last things lingers on old clothes.

Sun has become as rare as goldenrod.

I call for August, but no answer comes.

Autumn awaits across a worn doorsill.

I need you to make sense of falling leaves,

When death paints a rich picture ot itself,

And shadows measure out the long way home.

Poema "A Calendar of  Sonnets: August", por Sandra Fowler 

[04/02/1937 ~ 29/11/2012]