The Ninth of Ab
John Hollander
1965
August is flat and still, with ever-thickening green
Leaves, clipped in their richness; hoarse sighs in
the grass,
Moments of mowing, mark out the
lengthening summer. The ground
We children play on, and toward which maples
tumble their seed.
Reaches beneath us all, back to the sweltering City:
Only here can it never seem yet a time to…
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