August memories are retreating, reflecting and putting the work, thought and mission to bed. Reconciled reality, laying the bricks of further foundation for years still coming. Have bugs gone to refrain from pestering, perhaps not but somehow the stifling stillness speaks of relief and change. Patience the crucial weapon evades our mastery, and we are left to struggle against the demons of dark and imaginary conclusion.

These are not the scraped knees of the malleable and flexible child we remember, but those scabs, wounds or fears assembled against the woman or man we have taken seriously into the tablet of days. What relief is offered in simply breathing? What cause the wind blowing hot across our brow in formulating, fixing or frustrating the restless soul within us? How do the comments so differ in their effort to conform our reason? Why does the fate seek our stiffness of extremity and blight of resting strength?

Where is the harvest work still coming? What fields lay ripe, readied and set apart for collection? Who may say that the fall storehouses will soon be firm and full for tending to winter arrival? The work left undone reminds us of summer’s ending. Gone are the joyous expectation in dalliance and sweet tea swigging on porches made for slumber? Who dreams of tabernacled tent in simplicity of prayerful pleasure? What hope of forgiveness has the goat of our scaping? Relinquish the pressure brought along with unforgiveness to heal that which may be closed and lay aside the burdens of expectation’s plunder.

What treasures must never be hidden, tossed or concealed from measure presenting the pleasures of fulfillment and purpose that are never envied, stolen but freely shared? What are the opposite of wounds found in the healthy heart that cast the die in courage and hold within the power, hope and elastic muscle against encroaching dawn? What bandage the love of those who give encouraging care without request? What promise has the man with no worry, no weapon lashed against him, no plight of trepidation?

We focus on the dark, storm, crashing waves and onslaught forgetting to remember the sun in its glory and promise or warmth, growth and dimension. Have we been promised some manner of delivery, some faithful expectation of courageous stand against the night? How might we explain the will to mount defense against the whims of everlasting conquest/? What is the joy in handful of pure mountain spring brought close to lip for quenching? When relief unnecessary for the work was sought in joy, the discomfort the burr beneath a saddle of our training? Is that peace here in the late summer noon’s of buzzing and sharpened sawgrass? Why does simply sitting in the cool evening sand watching the sky turn fifty hues of crimson and gold fill and calm the heart?