The Labyrinth, the Septic Tank

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Blue and gold day. Sharp clear sky. Late August: time is racing by. Long dark shadow fingers loom so early now each afternoon that I am torn: should I lie down in your arms in our dim bedroom and miss a precious hour of sun when it is also wholly true that I long to lie with you and spend an hour – more- in the mesh of arms and legs, mouths, breath, and flesh? Still, if I choose to raise my head from the activities in bed and look out at the cedar tree, light slants. Time’s moving visibly.

Red sunset. Misty morning sky. The rhythm of the everyday. The septic tank, the labyrinth – both new and both as old as myth: improvisations in the groove habit and terror, work and love have worn in us. Or last week’s trench – first to locate a sewage stench (we walked for decades on old shit but till now barely noticed it), then excavate and then replace, fill up the hole and plant new grass. Replacement happens for a reason. Time presses. All things have their season. Red alert: two dead leaves fall. The pandemic drapes its pall.