Summers Last Grip

A wisp of cool air cuts through, hovering over the cracked, crooked heat of the humid prairie, settling somewhere in the midst. Autumn, in its gentle elegant way, suggests, “my arrival is pending.“ This news can feel like the most welcoming and tender sledgehammer to the wilted soul that needs to break out of summer’s last grip. The crickets and the cicada compete to be heard in a suspended swell of desperate 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—which one must then turn into something bigger —then oneself!” Ah yes. And Into the night you will go, surrendering—turning back into your own ghost.