The Ninth of Ab

John Hollander

1965

August is flat and still, with ever-thickening green
 Leaves, clipped in their richness; hoarse sighs in
  the grass,
   Moments of mowing, mark out the
    lengthening summer. The ground
We children play on, and toward which maples
 tumble their seed.
Reaches beneath us all, back to the sweltering City:
Only here can it never seem yet a time to…
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