August J. M. Strother Dragging hoses without end To gardens parched and dry, Where even weeds droop and wilt Under the high August sun. When will the weather break, I beg, To the uncompromising skies? When will the rain again gently fall To nourish small green lives? I do not love the heat of August. No, summer is not my time. So, Autumn, hurry on your way And replenish my aching soul.

 
~jon
My Blog - Mad Utopia Writing in a new era.