(a conversational response to the last two beautiful posts)
Autumn pulls on summer’s cloak, hiding itself under the guise of August heat. In long, smooth breaths, it sweeps away its incriminating red leaves, clearing all signs of September off the streets. Hearing the promising bark of these dog days, you dive backwards into crisp water and the bright clarity of July.
--But fall pulls you back out with a falconer’s call, with a commandingly cold wind. Tree branches cringe and chatter restlessly. Having found warm days folded away, chilled mornings snake across glazed streets, hurrying no when, no where (in fear?) Summer fades with these suncold days and you write 73 sonnets in desperate endeavor to keep him here--you send out a raven to look for his voice, but it returns like an echo.
(three days and already you’re losing your youth)
You grow weary of living inside this skeleton heart, this stoic space. June fades too soon and the wind blows you away, astray, and you become a wanderer, singing out in a nervously soulfull voice, with fear and trembling in your shadow.
Halfway (underway), you come to a place where moonlight midnight streetlight dims and a winged shadow hums against your skin. Like a creature native and indued unto this element, you dive
in
to this darkness, where river streams trickle down from dreams, & you are light dancing on the tips of waves, a plant reaching for the moon. we die too soon, you tell me, but I say to your lips with my lips, We love not soon enough--We do not drink enough forest air! We blow through like wind, too quickly, too loudly to hear the crunching of autumn and the light of the sun.
So I will you scatter you like Orpheus: you will become laughter and songs that run from stream to stream and leap towards the sun. And having stole a slice of it, you will rain down and return to us, to life, with fiery stories of beauty and metamorphosis.
Autumn pulls on summer’s cloak, hiding itself under the guise of August heat. In long, smooth breaths, it sweeps away its incriminating red leaves, clearing all signs of September off the streets. Hearing the promising bark of these dog days, you dive backwards into crisp water and the bright clarity of July.
--But fall pulls you back out with a falconer’s call, with a commandingly cold wind. Tree branches cringe and chatter restlessly. Having found warm days folded away, chilled mornings snake across glazed streets, hurrying no when, no where (in fear?) Summer fades with these suncold days and you write 73 sonnets in desperate endeavor to keep him here--you send out a raven to look for his voice, but it returns like an echo.
(three days and already you’re losing your youth)
You grow weary of living inside this skeleton heart, this stoic space. June fades too soon and the wind blows you away, astray, and you become a wanderer, singing out in a nervously soulfull voice, with fear and trembling in your shadow.
Halfway (underway), you come to a place where moonlight midnight streetlight dims and a winged shadow hums against your skin. Like a creature native and indued unto this element, you dive
in
to this darkness, where river streams trickle down from dreams, & you are light dancing on the tips of waves, a plant reaching for the moon. we die too soon, you tell me, but I say to your lips with my lips, We love not soon enough--We do not drink enough forest air! We blow through like wind, too quickly, too loudly to hear the crunching of autumn and the light of the sun.
So I will you scatter you like Orpheus: you will become laughter and songs that run from stream to stream and leap towards the sun. And having stole a slice of it, you will rain down and return to us, to life, with fiery stories of beauty and metamorphosis.
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