Oct 2011
Dear Autumn,
I kneel at your oak alter, hands clasped around my steaming coffee cup, defrosting.
I silently count the copper leaves that fall around me, pulling your crisp raw air deep into my lungs, hoping to dust out the recesses of a rowdy summer.
The soundless spice of brown sugar cinnamon feels like a prayer in my mouth.
A combination of knee high wool socks and chestnut brown boots halt the cold from traveling from the morning’s frozen dew that rests, stubborn on the the lawn, into my bones.
Sweep clean, the ground where my heart leaped, when a net did not appear.
Healing is never over, but the seasons always come.
Fall, be kind.
I kneel at your oak alter, hands clasped around my steaming coffee cup, defrosting.
I silently count the copper leaves that fall around me, pulling your crisp raw air deep into my lungs, hoping to dust out the recesses of a rowdy summer.
The soundless spice of brown sugar cinnamon feels like a prayer in my mouth.
A combination of knee high wool socks and chestnut brown boots halt the cold from traveling from the morning’s frozen dew that rests, stubborn on the the lawn, into my bones.
Sweep clean, the ground where my heart leaped, when a net did not appear.
Healing is never over, but the seasons always come.
Fall, be kind.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
