Dense dark day, two sun chairs
sit on the lawn in the rain.
Which stops. A mist comes to
roost in the leafy intervals of
trees over-burdened in mid-
September. It still seems far
from turning time. August,
where did you go? The water
globes that are mist hand with
a look of permanence. Down the
street houses go soft in it,
color smears on water color
paper. A frowzy day, cool
and clammy. The typing paper
is limp as the skin on the
face of someone old you fondly
kiss. Summer leaves, in un-
seen ripenings, readying
to fill the air with falling.
— James Schuyler
A Thousand Mornings 