Summer’s Last Grip, August, 19th, 2021

A wisp of cool air cuts through, hovering below the cracked and crooked heat of the prairie, settling somewhere in its midst. Autumn, in its gentle elegant way suggests, “my arrival is pending.“

This moment’s abrupt, like being struck by the most tender cosmic sledgehammer that’s gifted itself to the wilted soul needing to break out from the spell of summer’s last grip.

The crickets and the cicada compete to be heard in a suspended swell of harmonic revery. A symphony of frenetic melancholia—plaintively testifying; “We know this song is coming to an end! We know! And we’re going to summon all, to divine from themselves this ancient autumnal ache— one which must then be turned into something bigger then oneself!”

Ah yes. And Into the night you will go, surrendering—turning back into your own ghost.

*p.s the online store has just been redone, to fit the motif of this new website!New T- shirts coming soon!