August Thirtieth

The sky is huge this morning, boundless, endless, and I envy my fellow-travelers on the sea who have one hundred eighty one degrees of sky.

It’s huge and color-changing from the most-perfectly-pale-nothing to the most-perfectly-pale-rose, then deepening but moving to mauve and then through to blue-white.

It’s August and the sky is perfect.

It’s August and three green-yellow leaves fell in my path.

Leaves fell in my path and I am afraid. I am afraid that I don’t have it in me to get through another loss-of-light. I am afraid that I don’t have it in me to navigate the current swamp.

For my opinion on hyphenated words, especially colors, see my academic work

But it’s a perfect summer day and I want to be happy in it. I feel guilty about being happy and wanting to be happy when there’s a swamp to feel badly about.

I’m frankly not going to starve a wolf just because he’s afraid. I just hope that Love Wolf can heal him.

I apologize. I had meant to share the beauty of the sky and stop there. Poetry demands truth.