Transitional seasons Are those The windows can be left open To let air in, The cool enough, warm enough air, Air that carries the sounds of night: Crickets, croaks, coons and coyotes.
Coyotes: like packs of spooky ghosts, Traveling fast through the shadows of… Of Landscape that has lost its definition, Wake me at 2:30 to the thoughts The air has also brought in to my Mind’s disarray, losing its definition.
I feel forgotten, or, worse, erased.
I want to jump out my window Join the pack wandering below The moonless sky, only stars: Those we always see, and those We only see when the brightness Of other things finally dims so we Can make out their presence, Remembering their part in the Constellations as important to the Myths told to children as lessons Of how to live. Don’t erase them. Don’t let these stories be faded From our night’s sky’s Luminescence. I dare say, these Windows, opened, let air carry in- To the empty space inside, proof: