Days before Indian Summer drag like Andrei Tarkovsky films,
and, if you’ve seen them, you know they more than drag—they
demand a dreamlike going-there, no turning back: from Ivan’s
non-Childhood to Nostalgia’s smoldering wick. They troll what
freedom might have spent. They toll some Rublev bells untold.
And, growing somewhat old, I gather more in Indian Summers
than ever hoped before. My children speed their step as
August
reaps whatever store—they’re in it more for the shine and
rut
that Autumn brings, the září and řijen that beckons fawns to
be
young bucks and does. So the story goes: youth re-ruts the
old.
The European Athletic Championships run while I think it
out:
a race that pits a Russian and Ukrainian seems naturally
remiss.
Black Panther punch one and another!—you’re doing it no less
in facebook wars… But these young athletes have much more in
mind than redressing petty politics, opting for some fools’
gold.
Their parents both saw Tarkovsky films, for instance, Sacrifice,
and now, in days before the summer ends, a hope would be
that
all can see we’ve come too far for cold war land grabs and
dog-
days’ growl for veranda scrawl symposia—we all must ruminate
the line between some entitled sense of being….and being
bold.
To my mind, there’s little choice. The world has falsely
thrived
on lack of ethical sacrifice. Those who’ve had a lot in life
may be
a mewling sort: their meat has safely come from some provide,
and ‘old dogs/new tricks’ may not translate far and wide. To
the
point, we purchase souls that are probably far from being
sold.
And there the poem can end. Who really cares, after all,
where
poems begin and end? Who understands where Indian Summer
days, if they have a feigning chance to (in our immigrant
minds)
begin? Tarkovsky—Russian Swede, Italian eye-piece for days
in
dancing need—pell-mell rounds up sheep to field a better
fold.
And that is where any Indian Summer (in advance) should go—
Leave the predisposed and concentrate, in temperance, to
that
which needs a better fold. There’s no source here but the
Gospel
Luke: ‘Physician, heal thyself’—the tautology upends
itself—so
we’ll fall to autumn leaves that jockey not for soil
predisposed,
and rather fall as Luke and others may not have easily
foretold.
Much the point of Jesus’ ministry is being in a place where
earth
conditions are both at hand and not-to-be-believed: who’d
see
a blind man gaining sight with a paste of mud? Or Lazarus
rising
arbitrarily? No one would see. And thereby we are humbly
told.
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