A woman, tearful and tuneful, on a trapeze in a silken skirt, balancing the days, she is 51 years old, her hair is wild and red, she wakes up each morning with a hum and a scream; she keeps a diary of forgotten days, of memories not yet remembered; she dreams of burning man, dust swirling all around her, building her own temple of lust and forgiveness; she wears a black lace garter belt with stockings high up her legs; she takes her time when there is none to take, and hurries herself when the days seem endless; in September, she flourishes, dancing in the shadow of the sun, all trees become climbable, each word spoken has meaning; she is not at all in love, but soon will be, she muses, he will be a fiddle player, tall and lean, they may never kiss, they may never make love, but the haunting sounds he weaves in their bed will be more than enough...
