Heart of August

I dive through Summer on two thin tires.
Pillars of leaves and needles parse
thick light and a heady atmosphere, cool on my skin,
as I plunge through the dappling
of a rising of weeds for sun –
the pillars of all of August,
and I am stealing deeper to their roots.

Down there, at the heart of August,
I’m rolling onto the government dock,
tires tapping every wooden slat.
The sun has emerged (for August is where it makes it’s home),
and the island recedes like a passing planet,
suddenly distant. I squeeze my brakes
and stop at the tip of the dock in a different world.

Out there, islands fold back in fading layers;
new forests, taken root on turtles’ backs.
Sea birds dwarf themselves against the island creatures,
trying to spot their eyes, hidden under mosses.
August birthed them breathing into being.
They surfaced from the sea, within the week:
of this I am quite certain.

I strip my dusty shells and wraps,
and dive again, through green lapping –
tasting the salt and weeds and afraid
to open my eyes – kicking past the pillars;
looking again for the heart of August,
beneath the breeze, beneath the surf,
where summer sure must sleep in a bed of leaves.