The late summer/early fall sun calls to me these days, out to the streets of Cambridge, and all I want to be is: river-running, red-blood-flowing, earfulls of music, my body one with other lovers dancing like atoms in this universe, small and large at once.
Running to deal, running to heal, running for strength, running with so many goals in my head. Wishes for my body, fantasies far away, breathe in, breathe out, journeys of miles begin with few steps.
It was a time of music, reading, teaching, budding love, fruits and changing seasons.
Watermelon: lovely, reddish-pink and squishy, nourishing, black pit surprises, a green shell warns with bitter juice when party nears its end. How could something so beautiful, full of life and truth, be despised, stereotyped? I balk and bite in on long summer days, juice drips, wraps around my wrists, sugar bracelets, a bodacious summer blossom, alive, too good to be left.
Watch me in my bliss, if you will–I will, and won’t regret. Watch me pluck these strings, life thrills, jazz trills, melon-dipped couplets.