| Not Gone Yet |
[Aug. 14th, 2011|09:21 pm]
rejectomorph
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The trees gather darkness while the sky retains a pale light. Empty Sunday evening streets are full of silence. The air has begun to cool, yet remains still but for the vibrations of the insects it carries. Nightfall is noticeably earlier now, as August passes. Autumn is creeping under those dark trees, breaking the dry grass, nibbling at the roots of small plants. I suspect it won't be long, but just how long it won't be I don't know. You never can tell what season September might decide to be. Summer might linger throughout, or sudden ranks of clouds might rush its heat away before the equinox has even arrived.
But for now the night remains mild, and the crickets are still singing their loud songs, and the cicadas buzzing. So maybe that's not Autumn lurking under the trees. Maybe it's a touch of melancholy coming on, presaging the ennui the dog days often bring. Perhaps I'll turn morose, and do nothing but lurk in the darkness myself. It's been known to happen. I become bad company for myself, and worse company for anyone else. If it happens this year, I hope it doesn't last too long. It would be a shame to waste the mild evenings and all those stars.
Sunday Verse
Anatomy
by Gilbert Sorentino
Certain portions of the heart
die, and are dead. They are
dead.
Cannot be exorcised or brought
to life
Do not disturb yourself
to become whole.
They are dead, go down
in the dark and sit with them
once in a while.
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