I have fingers that dance in your late summer sun. An afternoon slouching into evening, the waning of a day. The heat takes off it’s shirt and inches it’s way into the deep end, breezes releasing as the light grows whiter, nearly phosphorescent.
I touch them to the soft tails around me, as I walk, the imprint of every summer since I began to walk, the round hardness of a stem, the wool like tip, the softness in that rigidity. There’s a sigh trapped in this greenery, in it’s purples and browns too.
Into the light, indulgence and I am transfixed, my fingers deftly around these petals, around this unknowing. There’s a cry to this color, a battle song and a keening mourn. To summer it might sing to summer, to the days which sup too long at the foot of a slowly faltering star, to the ground which grew so cold, so unyielding such a short time ago.
A concerto these colors, these moments in time, to a season which last no longer than a blink of an eye all told. Defiance in the face of a land built of rock and swamp. As I sit captivated, a honey bee flirts and yet pass by, unconvinced.
I would carry this land in my bones, in my blood. I carry this land in blood. This late day brilliance, this stark warmth on my back, it’s the reminder, it’s the sign, it’s the calling. The whispering melancholy of time, the past and future coalesced into a beam slipping stealth like through the clouds of bromus cilatus, calamagrostis canadensis, phalaris arundinacea. I walk into this light, on this land, imaging women, stomachs barely settled from the voyage across the ocean, standing back, pausing to soak in this diffuse day. I hear children cutting through this green, laughing into the distance. I can taste the fires they lit as this light escaped.
It is delicate, and fleeting. Much like youth, love, hot bread and first snowfalls. Yet in it, all things glow and shine, magnificence takes on new shapes, and I find a sighing satisfaction I cannot explain.
Beauty, I think, has only time in it’s pocket.