On Aug. 31 every year my father used to recite the following little, silly ditty:

“There once was a dog named August. August was very fond of jumping to conclusions. One day August jumped to a conclusion, and the next day was the first of September.”

Silly. And, he loved it. Of course, his birthday is in September, so perhaps he had no regrets saying goodbye to August.

I love August. I love my father, too, still, even though he has been in his grave for 34 years. And, I love remembering how he loved that little ditty.

But, here’s another August poem for your reading pleasure, and this one is also by Louise Gluck, from The Wild Iris.

Vespers

by Louise Glück

In your extended absence, you permit me

use of earth, anticipating

some return on investment. I must report

failure in my assignment, principally

regarding the tomato plants.

I think I should not be encouraged to grow

tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold

the heavy rains, the cold nights that come

so often here, while other regions get

twelve weeks of summer. All this

belongs to you: on the other hand,

I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots

like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart

broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly

multiplying in the rows. I doubt

you have a heart, in our understanding of

that term. You who do not discriminate

between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence,

immune to foreshadowing, you may not know

how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf,

the red leaves of the maple falling

even in August, in early darkness: I am responsible

for these vines.