The sun falls,
and my favorite old chambray shirt wraps around me
with the smell of rain and deep dark earth
made rich with old bones
and memories of summers, alive and abundant,
warm and golden.
The harvest season sets in, and we slip into the indigo
to the song of the cicada and the casanova cricket.
The seeds that have lain dormant in my soul
sprout and bring forth new life
and joy,
crying and dancing in victory
and stretching their limbs
to grasp the world and cling for dear life,
drinking the rain with thirsty throats
and siphoning a private reservoir to draw upon
when the sun grows hot again.
