These weeks

Standard

My new year starts now.
Tomorrow, early up, get a run in,
( I mean that is the plan),
pack up the boys,
and walk in with the two crates of work I meant to do this summer.
But let’s be honest,
(if that’s what we’re going to do),
I haven’t touched those suckers since I put them in my bedroom,
sometime near the end of June.
Not sure how long I will last tomorrow.
Be it an hour or six, to set up the rhythm,
maybe I’ll wait to make my coffee till I get there.
So that the room smells of the deeply roasted
french pressed coffee, I require to put my teacher face on.

But I end this year tentative –
After a summer worth talking about.
It is rare for me to not be excited about the fall,
about the crisp settling in-
about the colors changing,
about apples measured in pecks and bushels.
about the prospects of shoes.
I mean, I won’t wear shoes that require socks or stockings till –
perhaps October the first,
so long it has been that I have lived in New England,
and believe that one should expose their manicured toes,
till at least the oaks start to turn.

But no, I am not thrilled for this new year,
this is a bit of dread.
And I’m not sure if it’s because the energetic one
begins his new school-
but then, the small one does too.
Perhaps, it is because, like every summer,
I feel like I haven’t even begun to finish all I meant to do.
Or maybe there is a darker shade of grey,
no not the book I avoided all summer,
(because dammit,I get my smut from a third wave feminist magazine)-
Maybe there is something darker besides the night that grows longer.
Or perhaps, after eight years of grown-up September,
I’m just not ready to let my summer go.

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