We’ve bathed in an Indian summer of short sleeves and sandals. Nights of cool but not cold. Not cold yet. These are the gradual transitions of weather that mock our crashing through happenstance and plans. We can only look to calendars, to grass still green, to roses still red, and wonder.
I would be of the seasons if I could. I would be the slowly burning Sugar Maple. To suffer naked and be clothed again. I would be that.
His Bobness/Unbearable Bobness of Being