August

A figure waits for me at the door

August walks closer to me like an old friend

one whose touch I recall

but still stings all the same

The summer sun persists as the days dwindle,

This month, a prologue to the remainder of my year 

I greet with caution, 

resistant to open my arms

What shall come to me?

I beg it to be free of cruelty. 

I long for a surprise,

But who am I to ask for a favor from fate?