I am not your Saturday evening, nor do I wish to be your Sunday morning. I am, however, the crisp autumn Sunday, sunny and 65 – the one you can never fully grasp, always just out of reach. I fall with the leaves and bloom in the spring. I am the spontaneous cool night in the middle of the blazing summer. I am the hurricane in late July and the shower in early April. I am not your weekly routine, for I am not yours. I do not follow my flock south in the winter, nor do I greet them in the north when spring arrives. I am the moon seen in the morning and the first star you see at night. You wish you may and wish you might, but I am the sun your thumb can’t measure with one eye shut tight. Your ignorance is not bliss when you schedule me at three-thirty on a Thursday afternoon or to take me for a night out on the town then cancel at noon. I am done being your Saturday evening and wish to be yours no more. I am not a time set and placed, one for you to scribble down last minute and crumple up later. Throw me out with last year’s planner, I do not care. I am truly my own and do not wish to share.