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by Peter Shefler

Just there—
like the color
in the circle
of your eyes, that changes
so quickly—so too,
as your smiling
warm, full
of delight, face
swiftly away
with your long afternoon
amber hair billowing
in the force of that beautiful
rare pirouette—just so—
so it is in the same way,
exactly, that summer ends

And also, just there—
at the same moment unfolding,
I too turned, and saw anew
the maple, transformed
from green to crimsons and gold
in just a day—and the sunset
was persimmon against sky blue.

Who would have known
that the days had passed
before we knew
what we were missing
was just
right there—
right before the cedar waxwings
made their last dances
into the southerning, setting

This is the pivotal time
when the earth glances
equally each way
between the dark and the light
and asks us to be more
aware—quickens our longings
to move from satiety and stillness
to preparing
for the long journey ahead—
to gather in
the harvest, and to go forth
as warriors
without weapons, only
with bright desires
into the now
light, waiting
not long—in this night—by our late red fires,
for the Pleiades so soon
to rise—
for Orion and the Great Bear to show themselves—
and mostly, for Diana—she, who is
without fear—
and the great
huntress's moon—
on the eastern horizon,
envisioning it now, and all
the sustenance it holds—just knowing,
and simply
just waiting
for it to appear.


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