The temperature is in the eighties and that feels warm, but an autumn wind is blowing. What a great time of year. About two weeks ago, while running at dusk I felt it for the first time. For weeks I'd been anticipating its coming, even as the dog days of Texas summer dragged their feet. I took Wallace for a run and we found a field that was recently cleared, leaving stumps and the scent of cedar behind, to play in and watch the beautiful sun set. On the run back the wind met our sweaty bodies with a coolness not felt for months, a delicious foreshadowing that fall is on its way. This reminds me of a favorite poem by Bill Holm.
August in Waterton, Alberta
Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
in doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful.
If you're not used to reading poetry, just remember to breathe. There are very few words so they are each one there by choice.
This is kept by my desk and computer, where I write; where I stare off into nowhere land; where I confront demons; where I face my own failure, or the teasing of it. This poem reminds me that failure in art will lead, if one endures, to success. The failure itself might even be beautiful, might even be art. I also keep a Pearls Before Swine Cartoon posted by my desk to remind me to laugh at it all.