Tuesday, September 10, 2013

My Dearest Autumn,

My love, how long has it been since we've enjoyed the soft indulgences of company? Far too long for my tastes, as you know how deeply I adore you. For one so lovely in all the graces, you are maddeningly unpunctual. Hide from me much longer and I will begin to take offense. Such a child of summer you are, delighting in the long shadows behind the house until well past time to come home. Shame on you for making me wait, there, by the windowsill, hanging by a cobweb of a hope. Was that you, in the gloaming? Could it possibly have been? No, again, no, for whole seasons, no; you toy with my affections.

You, my dearest Autumn, are no more than a cat meandering through my garden, dropping half gone offerings on my doorstep. Reminders of how truly enamored I am with your presence, even if it is only in the vague awareness you might deem exist to me once more. I gather these scraps you leave, fill the corners of the my home with them. I am mad, you see, after all. A bedeviled woman with bowls, platters, and jars spilling over with your little artifacts. You give me life, you must see, how you do! Your cool touch, your particular scent, your secreting the darkness ever nearer, cocooning my soul. And when you leave my side so soon? How I tremble, how dark and empty and dead the entire world becomes. The unbearable bleak of the proceeding days is lessened only by the coy promise of your return.

Promise is such a torturous affair, plunging one into the depths of hope; a prison, a cruel, key less cage. But, my selfish love, I write most fervently to you now, for I feel you coming. I hear the distant padding of your step, feel the shift in the air at dawn, and there, in my kitchen, balanced between east and west windows, I am enchanted by new shadows come to visit. In the mornings there comes a stillness, carried on the back of eastern light, silhouetted with overgrown hedges, filtered by the dirty streaks of thunderstorms now passed. Light like this comes creeping, blanketing the dusty corners, shyly at first, then growing so bold by end of day, my home seems engulfed in fire and ashy warmth.

I make haste, tidying the garden, harvesting the last of the peppers, tending the pumpkin vines, sweeping the clippings from the stones, all the while trying too hard to pretend the air is not so humid. How these cage bars rattle in my heart, compressing my lungs, my ribs paining upon waking! My love, my dearest, I beg you return to me, for then, and only when I feel the lightness of your breath across my lips, filling my lungs with your crisp and heady scent, shall I be free again. Come home, my love, it has been long enough. For if I cannot know you again, I humbly pray the ether I've departed to inhabit will be nothing but an endless season of you.



Though lovers be lost, love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
-Dylan Thomas