The cusp of seasons waxes a melancholy mind each turn a little less sure how the sun hangs in the sky over the homeward drive low for a while then high confusing time Shows even at five and ten and twenty nine when the world felt twice than alive everything was always dying Each pass the summer skies go undermined to autumn then fall to ice beat back with new grass wither in sun's fire While inside the dishes and the laundry pile hearts ply and lose desire blind by days to the ties of light and outline perpetual arresting revise