We’re Not The Masters Here.

don’t push summer away just yet. fall is persuasive, but it’s locked its keys in the car and is fiddling with a bent coat hanger in the drive. let’s hit snooze on it, roll over and keep dreaming. these seasons rotate through like they’re the boss. knocking around our emotions and poking at our love. or maybe you’re one of those who hangs on for what’s brisk. fed up with being hammered by the patter of radiation. ok. i’ll admit, i’m just a little excited about the rusty parade of autumn. a flugel horn of falling leaves and a coronet song of cool breeze, an ache in the bushes and relief in the trees. truth is, we’re not the masters here. we’re tattooed with the drama of the season’s comings. the corn is sweet and the tomatoes captured in amber. we drag our feet into winter. we ride the cycles. again we submit. in the winter, submittens. there’s a song for all of this. and coffee perks uniquely for each new angle of the sun. we’re going to be fine sweetie. we’re going to be fine. it’s been a while for the thatched roof. it’s been a while for the sod shanty. it’s been a while for the stone outhouse and it’s been a while for the timber truss. our bones glued together, heartbreak after heartbreak, we still know how to love. and we ride the wheel of this movement. bless this holding on. bless this letting go. bless our mutual willingness. bless the bruises and bless the heal. the fields wave and we wave back. summer, autumn, winter, fall… we’ve seen and been conquered by them all. let’s sing a song together over some bitter, distilled twig pot. love to all… may you all be overthrown by the beauty of the moment you stand in. hw.