on the cusp

on the cusp

and this summer, solstice was a wearying confrontation, wading through dusk and failing to meet the dawn; waking to the detritus of being on the edge of softly fading light, leaking dripped vitality through cracks between the seams,

where ashen charcoaled branches lie paralleled and flat;

iron dry, the creases dream

of monsoons drenched, re-earthed,

a moment of empowerment 

deferring, now, to dirge

and minor, micro-management, 

in increments and patterns

made of time and all it’s worth;

on the cusp of agency, 

surrendering all power,

falling in full flight

in between the echoes 

of the chill of bright white lights,

and the warm integrity

of gently lengthening nights. 

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