I witness lightning forking like an erratic dance
while the rain pours the hardest in August.
The grasslands turn crisp, brown as the season
reverts its hottest on a May day.
I like to feel the fresh mist of dawn on my just woken face,
watch the clouds crawl
across the sky, being blinded for a moment by the round sun,
and count until the moon soars up, leading a march of stars.
We may not see it,
but the cells on our skins are constantly wrinkling.
At times the clock gets broken and stops ticking,
But time will not relent.
Like a girl entering her first period,
or a middle aged woman going through meno-
there’s always the arrival of August.