At midnight, at the last moment of August, I think
sadly about the leaves that keep falling from the calendars.
I feel that I am the tree of calendars.
Every day, my child, that goes away forever, leaves me
asking: if someone who loses a parent is an orphan, if
someone who has lost a wife is a widower, what is the
word for someone who loses a child? What is the word for
someone who loses time? And if I myself am time, what is
the word for me if I lose myself?
Day and night, not Monday or Tuesday, nor August or
September, day and night are the only measure of our
duration. To exist is to last, to open your eyes and close
Every night at this time, forever, I am the one who has lost
the day. (Even though I may feel, in the heart of this time,
the dawn climbing, like the fruit in the branches of the
My one hundredth post. Wow. It came so suddenly...came approiately enough with the end of summer. This time of year when that familar panic hits. So much to do...so much shelved in favor of the pool, the park, a good book. And now the time is gone...even now I should be doing something else.
And this blog...this simple thing, this untouchable space floating in cyberspace has come to have some importance in my life. It entered me into a net of other writers, other thinkers, some known in body, others not. This blog launched feelings long forgotten. It awakened a certain sadness but also brought the joy that always lingers around sadness.