September skies and a mist hanging over the grass tug me back towards the lost and lonely, though that isn't exactly the truth.
Something in me knows the time will soon come to wave goodbye one by one to all things summer, reposition the clothes in the closet, all the while recognizing I have not divested myself of enough.
The small losses are a sonar against which I ping.
I count my blessings only to trade them. I count my blessings to give them away.
Prayer flags flap in the blue skies of higher altitudes and I ask what are the essential fictions?
After all these years solitude is a well-worn jacket I stuff my fists into. My favorite. The first one hanging ready on the peg.
I will set out my boots for a serious waterproofing.
It's a bit of a contradiction, but the crisp air of September departures encourages my presence as the one who remains.
