End of Summer

The end of summer is the worse time for me.  
Everywhere there are reminders of the darkness, death, silence.... stillness.

But the world seems to resist slowing and like a petulant child laid down for an afternoon nap it throws it's tantrum.  
the last of the humid nights are the harshest,
the last heat wave of summer the hottest
the candle burns brightest before it extinguishes itself. 

Everything is suddenly filled with this resistance from the grain to flowering fruit dripping with its ripeness, full for harvesting

and it seems that I am too.
too ripe
too petulant
too resistant
too eager to be harvested...

I am moving a mile a minute to stay ahead darkness, death, silence... Isa
Isa is the ice
Isa is the cave
Isa is the stillness

Stillness that sends my mind reeling inward and it's desitination is accountability for all the things that I have done and all the things I have hoped to do


Isa is coming for me and I can smell her perfume on the cool, heavy shifting winds.
I know that she is coming towards me at a steady pace not nearly slow enough for my tastes and when she gets here I am gonna just fall forward into her arms.
And  I'm gonna cry myself into sleep and catharsis and back again until this house is clean.