Sorry to busy being n love . no point 2 try again

The light has already changed. The soft airbrushed quality of August has lifted and everything—the prematurely red branch of the sumac, the wilted jewel weed, the overripe rosehips—is outlined in September clarity. Lying on the porch with my prop (the book that accompanies my nap), I try to postpone the new year to fend off the lists that lurk right outside my vacation consciousness. I want to sink for just a few more hours into that state of timelessness and ease that is as comfortable and unrestrained as the rope of the hammock beneath my body. Like most of those whose biorhythms were imprinted by the school calendar, I know that summer doesn’t last until the 22nd. Already this “Dear parent” is being urged back into seasonal harness. Leisure—not that American oxymoron “leisure-time activity” but real leisure—is being replaced by alarm clocks and time frames and schedules. There is a foreign hand at the metronome and as the temperature goes down, its tempo goes up. By some unnatural order, we are given more to do just as the days get shorter. What do I want to take home from my summer vacation? I close my eyes and think. Time. That is what I would like. The wonderful luxury of being at rest. The days when you shut down the mental machinery that keeps life on track, and let life simply wander. The days when you stop planning, analyzing, thinking and just are. The line that runs through my head on this stolen day at the cusp of fall is one written by Paul Simon: “Did you ever experience a period of grace when your brain just took a seat behind your face?” Summer is my period of grace.