The Year in Its Infancy (October)
Days, once held in the balance, start tapering. Verdure has returned to the patchy curbside lawn strips, revived under light to moderate showers. A chill persists, though not yet musty or stifling. Neighbors and their bespoke dogs wear repellant outerwear. The turds they leave behind no longer petrify in the heat but melt back into the soil. Evening light pours flaxen between the clouds. A dented downspout gurgles.
Tired, crouched at his desk, lamp guttering beside him, King Solomon also contemplates a turd and the vapors arising from that turd, its once dry matter plastic in the rain. When the head is empty, certain metaphors suffice. A passel of concubines enjoins him to bed. Exhausted, he stays nevertheless. Autumn, the year in its infancy, brings another chance for efforts renewed. The concubines retreat. Neither rest nor pleasure was in the offing.
Solomon dips his pen in the inkpot. He adjusts the cushion beneath him. He blows his nose. He writes the aleph. He pronounces the words. He is scrupulous and enervated. He stills his twitching foot. Light to moderate showers persist through midnight. The sickle moon rises above the city walls. A steward appears. He brings a list of repairs for temple and palace. Solomon farts into the cushion. The clouds are wreathed in argent. A breeze comes through the window. It caresses the lamplight. The steward bows and retreats. The downspouts will have to wait another year.