• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 12
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Winding Down

Backpack on a meat scale weighs vagabond
opportunities, mapping out my life like a wind rose,
sure of location, content with time and space  
allotted, spotted hands engage in shadowgraphy.

Eight crisscrossing fingers flutter
up and down like peacock butterfly,
wings dusting yellow August fields
bracing for autumn; my outdoors excursions
increase in frequency and duration as I
attempt to maximize intimate moments
failing light complements Mabon balance.

A buffalo plaid shirt conceals my crépey skin
and liver spots that color aged arms like moss
encroaching along riverbed rocks and boulders—
minus it regenerative powers negating erosion.

My breath spews forth like misty daybreak clouds,
hanging dew heavy mere seconds, dissipating
immediately or vaporizing through a blue hole
in a redwood grove canopy where light flickers
like beeswax candles—red and blue. Watching.
Waiting for the sun to cross my “celestial equator”
hijacking twilight shades one final time.

May westerly breezes soothe not tousle my silvery hair
let me access a well-trodden path curling though an open gate


Winding Down

I accept fate as unavoidable as air gusts loosening leaves
reconnecting with my moon sign—fading like a fallen star.