Slow moving...
Caught unawares by the sudden chill
of November...

~born too late

No buzzing around, no chatter
flitting from place to place...

The glorious sunshine of a late
summer evening: August or even September
that Byzantine month when
the Roman Empire of another year

hasn't fallen.

The barbarians disguised as seasons:
late October's subtle slip of the tongue,
November's garish assault on the senses...

The quiet, deathly pallor of December
masquerading as our hopes and fears.

A solitary fly born too late,
forgotten in the rush towards
Fall and Winter,
Caesar's warning,

the spam filter.

Here we are: small spectators
in the fleeting cycles of Time;
slow motion tragedies,
subtle movements of History.

...

Staring at the wall,
wondering what happened
to Emily Dickinson and that fly
in November.

A new word...

I will make a new word. It will happen in the future (as opposed to those things that happen after we have noticed them). It will be a verb, capable of geranding, fine as the fettle and useless as the white sheets on a honky at a KKK rally. The name of my new word shall be "future".

I shall future that away. I've futured that; don't worry.

What does it mean? In the future I will tell you.