The sweet leaving of losing
leaving earlier. One tends to notice the firsts of things,
like this being the first day of autumn and this being
the first thing I will say about it. Summer is already
an afterthought like when we embraced outside the
rustic amphitheater before Much Ado About Nothing.
With newness comes the sadness—what we throw
ourselves forward full of hope into, we mourn the
sweet leaving of losing what we must give up behind.
Sand and sun and blue wind over white water mending
the broken shoreline trodden by footprints that run every-
whichway, one atop the other, certainty and hesitation.
Is this our second or third autumn together now, I can’t
be sure, since the stars still hum taut summer ditties in
Vega, Deneb, and Altair voices, the scumbling arcs
of northbounding, eastflaring, southflinting satellites
pass mutely overhead intersecting the trajectories we
inflict upon such dark musings with our low whispers.
The fans are still on, turning the trapped air in my
studio into scurrybreeze pouring down off the high
walls onto the loft bed I will lie upon naked and alone,
naked because to wear the season would be discourteous,
alone because tonight you are not here. Even now with
summer gone, one tends to notice the firsts of things last.
September 23, 2014