AUGUST
by Barbara Hill

Always will the dog wake me with her scraping and moaning. 
Always will the white cat cry for her food.
Always will her redhaired brother rush greedily inside. 

Always will I make English Tea #1 with goats milk and honey.
And I will choose a certain cup.
Always will I sit on the wooden bench outside and deadhead the portulacas.
Always will I drop their black seeds to the ground and forget them. 

 

 

 

Barbara Hill has been living in a country home in CT for 6 years and have fallen under the spell of her fellow creatures and plants. By the time real summer is here, the outside world is a humming, buzzing, blooming world. Barbara is an interfaith minister and maker of things. She has been writing since she was a tiny thing.