Autumn turns

We sit, still before our actions commence. It's like a windowsill--its depth there to lean upon. A nice twisting rail. The promise of late afternoon, evening still to come. Staring down the aisle. These memories do not present: in neither past nor future. 

Not in sequence; all of the peace parts, then returns to gather its new direction. A play of William Shakespeare. It's weak--there is no action, just a reading through the words. I've found a new pattern and it builds momentum. The grains of the wind by my side. All things one with God, our loveliness. 

All I can feel (and know) gathers together, surrounding--a life earned. A brand of sensation, swiftly in first, then second, up to the final heat. A bright green upon my shoulders. Proud, a single finger upright, exclamation upon my face. My eyes straight forward, reflecting the resignation of the evening.