August

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-

pause,

there’s always the arrival of August.

The Archeologist

She examined the traces of a leaf

fossilized on the solid asphalt soil.

As she touched the embossed print,

she theorized what grows before

the tall industrialized rectangular trees.

With the sun assisting

She scanned her surroundings.

She then wondered what swarms before

those vigorous aluminum vehicles

lining on the road like huge versions of ants.

In this forest of metals and steels

her hunting begins

of the infamous myth-

The Garden of Eden.

She searched with science,

measured with mathematics,

to rediscover the lost paradise,

or at least formulate hypothesis

to her queries.

But as the truthful sunlight reveals,

 all she found

were relics and dust

of the once prestigious refuge,

floating in the atmosphere.