Murmur in the Round

Summer becomes an origami see-you-later. Lately I have goosebumps when falling asleep. I don't mind the chill but what comes after can be a real problem. The signs of autumn are all around and as usual, I'm not really ready. Conventional wisdom suggests a posture of acceptance – accept cold bones as profit – accept gray overhang as benevolence. Do you suppose surrender is the same as acceptance?

Who migrates eventually returns and I am grateful. Geese – red winged blackbirds – butterflies. This weekend we will stain the deck and plant daffodil and tulip bulbs for spring. It doesn't hurt to prepare the path for future ecstasy, does it? So it is with allowing desire to simmer. To pass. To return again.

Our prophecy consists of colored stones and rivers, not to mention how we die where we lay. Lie? Speaking of stones, I skipped a few at the pond's edge the other night but that seemed a little like violence. Still waters have the shape I need right before winter comes.

And January, if I could, I would write you a letter; it would be a reminder of how you have a ceiling like a chapel – your beams collecting whispers and turning them into something more than hope. In these quieting days I try to remember the last bird song I heard but nothing comes to mind. Instead, crickets murmur in the round. Good night to August. Good night to homeless prosody. Good night to the hot pavement between here and there.