“August represents pure love,” my teacher’s teacher said;
then, why does hatred pull hatred to the mark?
After two national massacres, today looks
unreal. Hardly a bloom in the courtyard under cold fog
followed by wind over brown, dead grass.
I finish reading another bad book, sip lemon water.
Two friends connect by phone; I am willing to help.
We look for ways to heal, to engage, to find once again
joy hiding among the decades.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
August 7, 2019