End of August. Heat like a tent over John’s garden. And some things have the nerve to be getting started, clusters of tomatoes, stands of late lilies—optimism of the great stalks—imperial gold and silver: but why start anything so close to the end? Tomatoes that will never ripen, lilies winter will kill, that won’t come back in spring. Or are you thinking I spend too much time looking ahead, like an […]

vespers [end of august] :: louise glück — poetry