It wasn’t the time or place,
for I had neither time nor place.
An ambrosial mold was growing
thick about my face,
and hammers fell where they may.
Which is not to say…
And then the overtones,
the subtext, all seemed to glisten
in the mid-morning glow
which had settled o’er the half-acre
of dried care. I didn’t dare
upset the sense of equilibrium
even as my own was beginning to give.
These things, they live on
and through us alone and grow
only as we allow. They compose
the shapeless now that we inhabit
without asking. All along,
the breadth of summer seemed to be
increasing by too-subtle degrees,
even as our chafened hands raised
desperately to halt its progress.