Last August I wound cucumber vines and succored tomatoes. I stocked the freezer with wild blueberries from the high bushes. I trampled the morning dew and walked in every morning sun. That was last August.

Now I wave from my window, she knows I am here. One mislabeled tomato plant sits at my step, cherry, not beefsteak. No vines to untangle, no thought of pickles. Blueberries from the grocery mart suffice.

I still will cherish August and her lack of holidays, not so much her lack of fruit. Friends fill an empty space but not a vold.

Rain softens the soil
Downpours produce a mudslide
Choice changes seasons

Dversepoets.com suggests a Monday Haibun. August