This is the plum season, the nights
blue and distended, the moon
hazed, this is the season of peaches
with their lush lobed bulbs
that glow in the dusk, apples
that drop and rot
sweetly, their brown skins veined as glands
No more the shrill voices
that cried Need Need
from the cold pond, bladed
and urgent as new grass
Now it is the crickets
that say Ripe Ripe
slurred in the darkness, while the plums
dripping on the lawn outside
our window, burst
with a sound like thick syrup
muffled and slow
The air is still
warm, flesh moves over
flesh, there is no
seemingly unrelated yet we all move on…
inquiry for today~ keep the height of your kindness in the middle…
Here in the mid-Atlantic, the first hints of Autumn:
The slightest tinge of yellow in the foliage.
Groups of jumpy migrating geese clatter off at the slightest provocation.
The noise level out there seems to be increasing each day.
May you find the quiet voice of wisdom within.