August is one long Sunday—
a slow ache of subtlety.
That lazy pain subsides—
December comes, eventually.
The sun bears its soul upon the world,
forewarned only by flamelike flowers.
The snow strips the world of any soul,
leaving only the wind’s lonely powers.
To live outside of what gets lost,
to live untouched by heat or frost.
To remain—
always the same—
to be—
is what I wish.
To live among the turning tide,
to live in flight, nowhere to hide.
To change—
never the same—
to grow—
is what I must.
