Hair now light wheat hue, and wind goes ninety-nine degrees to sprinkle
tones from chimes outside my neighbor's door. "Cooler today, a bit," say radios.
I'm fastened to the desk I love. The keyboard soon will be replaced. Mid-week,
no sign of conclusion. In an hour,it will be time to wrap up scansion and its monstrous
revelations. Each day, calls for proposals elevate desire beyond usual weeds.
Summer remains a grand time for endowments. Crops mature in unison with
pioneering spirits, as ancestral sleeves. As though immune to in-vogue sentiments,
the unraveled pleasure of firm stasis. All the threats have names we can pronounce
and speak through in the form of an informal bond.
Chalices planted on shelves, dry season, comaraderie enough to go around
Sheila E. Murphy
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