||[Aug. 22nd, 2005|09:30 pm]
Crystal-cut and clarion, solipsistic Sunday
Bright breeze bringing a bugle call;
Far back in the brain, the pineal stirring of genetic memory.
The clockwork of the year clanks past an unheralded turning point
(Its antediluvian cycle part of a tacit understanding)
Bringing the heat-dazed dozer wide awake, and wondering at what started him.
My eyes travel the slant of the light
With sly familiarity, feigning innocence
When I twitch to thumb the change.
The heart has its seasons;
I know these lanes of light and shade, have walked the long years down, hand in hand
Listening to the chatterbox leaves that gossip behind their rattling fans
Restless in their seats during the intermission
Of the Sun’s migration
The clouds well-choreographed, dancing distraction until the next movement,
Silently miming the Summer’s dying soliloquy:
On days like these, with the soul’s ceiling arching away out of sight
No one listens.