August

Summer and late summer again.  Sunflower season ebbing, and I find myself waiting for goldenrod.  That is the end of it, the goldenrod, setting fluffy seed when halloween decorations go up.  This is the time when my ancient ancestors took in the harvest.  Survival for now no matter what, even the leanest harvests would keep a person alive till frost comes.  Tomatoes now.  A fan buzzes quietly, like the agnostic pencil-chipper at my grandmother's house.  No symbol of late summer is as resonant to me.

I wonder about old Tethys, about goldenrods blooming on the shore of that dying ocean as it finally closed up in Cimeria.  I also wonder, every moment, what strange attributes will materialize in the mind of the tiny being who sleeps in my lap as I write this.  Today, she blindly grabs for gouramis through the glass of a pet store tank, desires to stay awake forever, plays with shoes.  Tomorrow? She is just as actual as I am now.