Twelfth August

August ripens more than berries this summer
These are your fields walking us into woods,
and you know their trials as I know
the streets I came playing from

I follow behind you, pick burs,
thistle from your dress
and hair with more strands of dark
than the trees that lean into our eyes

We are everywhere breathing,
are shadows made from touching,
air drinking from our throats
until they are dry and their only speech
is words undressed to nervous laughing

Your skin is darker than mine,
native to this soil
It tastes me tasting its scent,
oils from pores I fall into,
becoming your flesh,
its light and lovely power

Ted Plantos
Toronto, ON