The Old Pew, Acorns and Thirsty Things

The old pew was moved onto the back deck while work was being done inside. I wondered if it had ever faced this many pines or crickets or bird songs — maybe as a tree it knew this chorus of prayer better than any of us. Humidity caused my fingers to stick a little when tracing the flower carved into the hand rest. The rest of the world is on fire. Yet I am here.

Now when wind stirs the trees, an acorn or two drops. I expected more time; I always feel that way in August. My spirit or countenance or whatever it is that decides to float or be anchored, begins to gather from wells. Moonlight pools in fading boats and campfires now dance and flare brighter than fireflies.

Daylight is different now too. Dawn used to perform a surgery of sorts – blazing with exactness. Penetrating. Lately though, it seems to limp a little before gathering the billowing fullness of day. After dinner I would frog about the yard tending to weeds or checking on the thirsty things. I would sweat and maybe sit in a camp chair to catch the last little sliver of sunlight stretching away from hungry shadows. Not now. It's chilly enough now for a sweatshirt and light seems skittish. I was born and raised in these cycles. They should be home. They should be me. I should love this. Her. Us.

Near the lake the other day I watched the slow swing of willows over the water.

green blue green

summer waves

goodbye