Mere weeks from now – how poignant, the leaves at summer’s close to die with exquisite riot of fire and color.  Nature’s ovation ‘fore the green world’s sleep and even now the evening sky mirrors fall’s dying breath in warm shades of flame and persimmon.  How lonely can the mortal sun be as it arcs across the heavens in last throes of season’s heat? A staggered catch ‘twist tree and sky as the winged ones soar with soft caress before the year’s wheel spins again. 

But even before the season’s turn, the world pulses against my naked feet like muted breath.  I reach, limbs wide longing for every bright moment to bake within my skin.  And if I become cold, I would grow wings, ignite into light, and gaze from the celestial sphere safely removed inside myself.  But perhaps, if fortune smiles, like scattered leaves yet to come and heaped high for ingenous sport, the peal of joyful freedom will ease the sting of what must be.