The usefulness of pronouns wavers like summer's wane - minutes convert away from long lasting light towards the growing hunger of night. Tender grasses are serenaded by that silver-tongued iceman making his way ever closer.
Manifold forms of the earth say it better than even the most lyrical landscape of the rhapsode bard. Sunflowers bow and nod. Blackbirds carry their song to a more appreciative crowd. And all the while, humans keep filling the conversation with words that dull the improvisation of nature's incessant interrelation.
Even me. I know better. You do too. See? They want more than the pen can bare.
I keep setting aside the end that locks down my gaze. The one thing that makes me feel special must dissolve into the babbling current that fills space with every thing that ever needed to be heard.
If I am not an author, then I am not “I.” If there is only listening, then I become a conduit of home-cooked meals and clean floors and thank-you notes. Perhaps like this, a fade into the ancient and always chorus arrives, whereby language returns to its unspoken, unbroken origin.
The last rose bloom of the season widens in the vase. Yet the hearts I have tended, less so.
How much longer will I resist the lessening of me? Cicadas say: l7 years or in an instant; it makes no difference, you see.