we could make it quiet now, but for
the simple act of wanting. face the bracing breath of this still mid-September
night. its calmness is a mercy. a gift we lack the intellect to receive. the humility.
the very basic gesture of simple grace. to open one’s hands in the shape of a
cup, a rudimentary vessel of flesh and bone. we are but supplicants, all, to
the dispassionate whims of an ambivalent universe. yet, its vast ambiguity is
its benevolence. its promise of a gentle reign.
this is raw living. this terrifying
act of existing. being awake is an ultimatum most harsh, and we offer it to
ourselves at the breaking of every single dawn. yet, isn’t every threat a
prospect in disguise?
September is not a threat. it’s a
leaf-littered stroll down musky sidewalks, just after the rain has stopped, and
a tiny hand squeezes yours more tightly when a distant thunder reaches your
ears. (fighting back tears, because you don’t want them to confuse your smile.)
September is a desert, and we are thirsty pilgrims. we ourselves are the
vessels which we hold out in front of us in supplication, hoping to be slaked.
let not a drop be wasted. regardless if it’s a tear, because even tears have
their value.
seasons shift and shadows gain
length. just remember that black is the presence of all colors, and the
increasing cold is just an excuse hold someone closer to yourself. September is
a cultivator of shadows. a reminder that the alchemist of winter is busy with a
mortar and pestle, grinding the death of the year into a spice of renewal. a
spice more precious than saffron. shadows are the rare root of such
ingredients. but our eyes are meant for more than just the monochromatic
melodrama of sight. the averting and the squinting. our eyes are the tongues of
our comprehension. savoring the tea brewed by the ephemeral firmament, as the
cloy of it all renames us as unwitting residents. living is a heady broth
indeed.
the time comes when the tiny hand
clutching your own will lead you down a nebulous path, dimmed by fear. but,
fear is just another choice. another fork in the road that September has paved.
and if you happen to pay close attention, as the path you are so fortunate to
share blurs on by beneath your feet, that tiny hand just might be offering you
a small piece of the sky.
