We slide into August without realising
though we've waited for her to appear
since the beginning of January.
Heat, yellowed grass, rain, muddied boots
are all common during her stay.
Such a mixed cup, fickle as the year.
Then, as we adjust to long, warm summer evenings
they darken again as August
slides away like a slippery girl
sliding out of our lives like a dinner date
climbing out of the ladies room window
when she can't face desert.
We yearn for her still, but she's off,
running like the Cheater until next year
when we meet again, blushing
Ruth Walters's Other Poems
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