This time of year, the light hitting the leaves looks different.
It's something about the sunshine —
it's taking longer for the light to reach the Earth.
I remember the summertime,
giving the cat a bath and
watching his little mouth round off in a capital O,
watching him cry silently —
even as I was gentle,
even as I poured the lukewarm water
slowly down onto him,
even as I kept the soap
from seeping into his eyes.
He looked up at me,
begging for me to end the bath —
and so I relented.
I keep asking for this season
to rush straight into the next one,
to go on and pass into something more brilliant,
something that doesn't require me
to lather myself in layers of repression.
