On the cusp of gilded spices

Warm and dusty air

Curls a cool day, smelling like grass


Cicadas question ‘y’ like ‘e’

-ternal indecision could be

Binding glue; no dying youth lasts


One baptismal ceremony

Wrapped around the spine

Of existence flashed and closed on open eyes


The open-palmed resistance to a push

Is now a retrogressive clenching

For life at one point defined


The fight is calm and silent

As the soul accepts its role

Allowing breezes to caress it on its path


A lone propeller cuts into

The dusk of dusks, a dawn

Drawn on a spiral over ever watchful grass