over summer

In late June in Colorado, landscape raised itself, a snowy rim against city, the cusp of a rock-realm carelessly straining space.

In early July at the local amphitheater, a curly-haired symphony conductor flourished in his sheer joy. The orchestra responded, each person and instrument a striking synergy. There were two vocalists. One, a diminutive man like a character in that TV show we like, lifted the music, held it aloft, cradled and lowered its tones. His and the woman singer's formal attire weren't out of place, in the near-rain in podunk Oregon. Their absolute skill commanded refinement.

In August along the highway as I drove to work, Queen Anne's Lace beneath the blue-gold sky held fine white faces. Whether or not a face like mine ever passed, they would continue their elegant struggle against dirt and the billows of wind.

September weeks allow burnished lawns and crumbled corn husks to raise a scent ripe for smoky horizons. I lift a rag, dripping, wring its chill as small ripples chant, and swipe the dusty roof of an icon.

Time's carriage is a mosaic of graces, each in its own place, unashamed.