Time is about to pick up pace and not slow down.
Until autumn starts to settle its yellow orange red brown crown,
this is the realm of the sun. And long lines of cracked dust
gold arch counting isolated clouds wilting shade from above
days have only just begun. Raining almost every sort of thing but water.

Yellow ejaculate off shamefully quiet, rouged leaved oak trees,
wood ash off brushfires, the voices off birds and little fluff balls
off wood ducks crash thirty odd smooth feet onto leaves,
day light and bright stars fighting for positions in forgotten constellations,
dead quiet, almost everlasting, off of the mind’s horizon.

Time is straightening out to dive in, kick legs like frightened fins
so deep the water pressure pops somewhere,
inside the ears of time, deaf, short of breath,
buried beneath the weight of chock blue salt bearing water.
Time dies, and is about to return to life, again,
just as the studious, slow illusion of progression
has done before, and before, and before.

Returned. Resurrected. Risen.
To break face above the surface.
And once time starts to pick up pace,
it doesn’t slow down for any of us.