precarious

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Why cling to one life
till it is soiled and ragged?

The sun dies and dies
squandering a hundred lived
every instant 

God has decreed life for you
and He will give
another and another and another  -Rumi

Pregnant and bursting, September aches for the chill of October.

Life clings insistently – growing odd orange mushrooms in the neighbor’s yard and spinning spider webs at an alarming rate.

I know that all too soon I must rid myself of the fragrant robes of summer and rest, naked and silent.

No leaves or flowers to cover me. No cicadas to sing me to sleep.

Still, the heat carries on,

Tempting me to believe that the sweet drip of a peach and the spark of fireflies are possible.

The garden’s bug eaten leaves and mighty fallen seed heads speak the greater truth.

Any day, we’ll wake up and look for a pair of socks. Where is that old, thick sweater? Does anyone remember where we stored the hats and gloves?

Any day. I swear.

But for now, the heat builds. The humidity saturates.

We are living on the cusp – too full with the growing season, which has given up its gasp no matter what the thermometer says.

We are balancing on the edge – knowing that the darker mornings and earlier nights do not lie.

The goddesses – birth, sustenance, and death – wait in the wings.

They hold their collective breath, waiting until one of them is definitively called forth.

Until then, we dance our precarious, drunken, tired dance

Spinning toward Winter, who is sure to catch us in her waiting arms.

 

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