october waxing

the shadows frosted overnight; dusty whiskered grass peers at me from the banks as i fly by. it is a sight that simultaneously exhilarates and fills me with dread. the afternoons are warm, but not hot. the soil sucks all available moisture in, ready to huddle for the winter.

not yet, i whisper to the trees. i'm scraping fallen pine needles every morning and my shoes take on a sticky sweet smell; i'm pushing all the old, dead wood into a pile behind the shed.

i find myself counting time in weeks, rather than days. i remember when i counted time in hours, and minutes, and ticked seconds off with my fingers. soon, i will observe whole months and years, and become a cold, hard carbon form.

24 September 2015 07:57