I wake to pre-dawn and wait like a countdown to a sunrise
that may never come, only the gradual lightening of clouds and the usual false
promise of rain, we having finally pushed out of the unbearable heat of Summer
and into the uncertainty of fall. no leaves turning yet, just the dulling of
green, as if the trees have ceased hoping, as I have, hope for what-- relief, reprieve, forgiveness or perhaps, the
need to feel numb, no Harry Potter magic, no clicking of Dorothy heals, just
the vague notion of a quiet space, after the brutal threats of Summer have
ceased, winding down to eventual numbness, in which I feel neither pleasure or
pain ,and no longer wake to the fear of being undone, sometimes this is all we
can hope for this sense of artificial peace
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