Indian Summer
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| Indian Summer |
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Year follows year, meadowhawk dragonflies
dry new wings, black-veined, wrinkled windows. What we think we know is the same strait-jacket, what we lack the same lack, all the time in the world. Leaves turn to brilliant going-away presents: envious, you'd love to learn festive, spectacular good-byes to the visible remembered world, more than resigned, considerately cheering the living with incandescent memento mori, mimicking exemplary loving humans, as well as other creatures oblivious of you as cloud formations: fast, strong fliers, fall's last butterflies: Mourning Cloak, Question Mark. 21 October 2003 |
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