August.
The sprinkler twirls, the summer wanes, the pavement wears Popsicle stains.
The playground grass is worn to dust, the weary swings creak creak with rust.
The trees are bored with being green.
Some people leave the local scene and go to seaside bungalows and take off nearly all their clothes.
"August," a poem by John Updike.
Encourage one another,
Donna
