But for this breath

This morning smells like back to school.

The light has tilted,

gilding the sides of school buses

until they glow—brilliant

against a sky that has

rinsed itself a deeper blue overnight.

The air whispers that first-day crisp:

the bite of an apple,

the curl of shavings from a

just sharpened pencil.

Somewhere, a whistle carries

across a freshly mowed field.

Lockers line up

like members of the band—

polished, waiting for the first note.

Dreams of crushes drift

between classes not yet begun.

The cast list for the fall play

will flutter on the bulletin board,

names stitched with miracles

and heartbreaks.

But for this breath, August still hovers.

Sand grits between the toes of

flip flops slapping toward waiting cars.

Beach towels, sunburn, salt,

folded into the back seat.

Doors close. Engines start.

The road bends toward elsewhere.

Toward agency.

And I am here, suspended in the quiet,

Holding a season

that has already let go of my hand.