au·gust – late 16th century: from French auguste or Latin augustus ‘worthy of respect, venerable, majestic’.

August is the month of my birth.

August is the last breath of summer before the promise of autumn.

August is the sweetness of a warm peach as its juice runs down your arm, chasing it with your tongue.

August is an everlasting golden hour as the sun stretches shadows while streaming through the trees in what can only be described as a holy quiescence.

August is diving into a lake in the darkness as the water kisses my sun kissed skin.

August is anticipation of returning to higher education, friends, lovers, and my journey back to a city filled with art.

August is the stillness of misty evenings punctuated with the chirping of crickets.

August is the inhale. August is the hold. August is the exhale of nature’s perfume as it hangs in the humid essence of twilight.

August is sitting in a canoe at midnight on mirror placid water looking up at the brilliance of a full moon while sharing stories with a friend.

August is the witnessing of a soul on a dark moon to a new sense of knowing.

August is the last month that I am just me as my swollen belly waits for the death of my old self and the birth of my new journey as a mother.

August is sitting next to a man on a swinging bench, engaged for hours in conversation, understanding that I am in love with him.

August is a hunger and thirst for self inside of a marriage which is slowly killing me.

August is my 40th rotation of the sun and the understanding that I have never known myself more deeply than I do in this present moment.

This August I am 41.

This August I am.

August I am.

August.