summer, i swear, still clings to my skin in that barley tangible way of a spider web you accidentally pull your arm through walking through the woods on a dark night or an unexpected stranger's hand on your back on a crowded street, just to get by.
underneath, in my muscles and organs, the churning tells me the next thing is already underway, being processed, plotted, prepared -
in that limited way we can, only imagining we can peek around the corner or over the horizon.
i try not to hold my breath because it is it's own kind of release, even when you're caught up in things.
transitions are really at issue: how to escort a recalcitrant self towards another feast of uncertainty and effort.