Seasonal Boundaries

                                  A worthy accomplishment, for one who settles,  in the luxurious Summer afternoon time arena. Moist droplets of sweat dribble down her cool and collected shoulders, gently resting upon the brim of her violet skirt. Down hillside pastures, through seasonal fields of picking,  where daisies once grew and flourished. A night under the blanketed horizon, A multitudinous sky hangs above, sultry as the dry wind that cools the thriving branches of preferred solitude. Hyacinths have spawned in the evening- silhouetted-  basement- valley,  cavernous with twig bark and dead elm. Our paths have crossed in the late dooryards of Autumn, as well as the city alleyways that linger between our lost desires.
                                 Long braided hand baskets of Easter and resurrection, the soft frail bunny in the gold- picketed forum, The wood fences of previous engagements, and failed promises. One has cursed the jeweled breezes, drifting off the soft outskirts, and into our midnight endeavors. The bottles of old, and fresh, brisk,  hand-me- downs garments,  that reveal a quaint, faint, and delicate legacy.
                                I have seen the silent eyes that told me so. I have labored through long tedious hours, amidst the pale furnished boundaries of my well- decorated study. I have awakened to cruel, vicious mornings pleading beseechingly, for the long- awaited- inevitable- departure, that we are all subject to. I shall drink my coffee black, and commence small talk with the local drunks who reside on deserted park benches. I will find a dog ( for they are friend to men) that suits my vulnerable sordid needs. I will read myriad volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica to keep me well- rounded in primitive measures.How elementary the reaping sounds of the neighborhood mowers, as they graze the monotonous surface. In the days of the weeping widow, I take to frolicking upon abandoned plains. I will eat my meat rare with no Worcester  sauce,( I shall make many necessary sacrifices of the significant variety). My resolution is to trudge through these current laborious days of tiresome desolation, with no resolution, no solution to the ancient unanswered question of egg- yokes and horseshoes.
                             Take me oh lovely middle aged Matilda,( with your long hair of crimson so becoming) out to your farmhouse right off the bleeding interstate of Indiana, and into your motherly arms, I need to be nursed, like a fatigued adolescent mountain lion, misplaced within a bullying cannibalistic herd of mountain goats.