I think that’s what it’s called.
August is suddenly full of this wildflower, this weed.
It spills from marsh to field to roadside
Splashing everywhere I go.
Green stems and purple flowers
Remind me that you are with me
Everywhere in August, even as you
Prepare to leave.
The blue sky, too.
The colors that you swim in,
That swirl around us both, now
Grow wild, unbidden, everywhere this August.
Heart-shaped rocks show up, too,
Warm from August sun and my fingers rubbing their smooth surfaces.
Since you mentioned them, I see them more easily,
I feel warm and slightly comforted that you will see them too, and,
Perhaps, think of me missing you,
Of open hearts and hope and love,
Of someone else who healed your heart,
Whom you, perhaps, still miss, this August,
While glimpsing fields of purple loosestrife everywhere.
Sara Epstein is a clinical psychologist from Winchester, Massachusetts, who writes poetry and songs, especially about light and dark places. Her poems are forthcoming or appeared in Silkworm, Paradise in Limbo, Mom Egg Review, Chest Journal, Literary Mama, and two anthologies: Sacred Waters, and Coming of Age.