I still climb the ladder. How strange that words maintain the lift towards a better view. Is it more than that? After the raw moment of newness, everything else only offers a dull walk around managed wilds. The lack settles, like the golden dust of summer's wane.
you be you and hold my hand - it's how goldenrod is harvested
Lately, I meander. The trail has changed so much since spring that the way seems heavy and foreign. Lace brushes elbow-high and the dog no longer fits beneath brambles. Too soon the twigged skeletons of the departed season will bear witness to autumn. October makes me a Libra but it is also the last possible boundary before that familiar canopy of darkness.
There is a certain self-loathing to speak of winter in August. But honesty is now requiring an ending to half-way touchstones. Maybe it's not clear because I can't know what I mean. In that way, it seems that with the yielding of meaning comes the end of writing. For what need would there be of a translator if all of this is transient? For whom do I even exist?
desire in the language of flowers - silence