September: A Prose Poem

'It's all a reflection,' whispers the moon. The harvest of Presence, an echo of Spring seeds, spent and empty. Light itself a stream of infinitesimal mirrors, quantum silences ringing like a wind chime in the void. So I exist as the touch of another, my soul a friendship, my breath a kiss, my loneliness swallowed up by the sound of a cricket in the chrysanthemum pot.