trading shells

October 19, 2006

Yellow leaves are falling from branches like ballerinas… delicately twirling across dirt roads. Milkweed down is rushing past windows, carried by the chilly breath of fall. I am listening to the music of Paul Baran… wallpaper in the dream-room (she whispers-shhh…) a whistle and the turning of pages.

It is October and the sugar maples are ablaze. I squint my eyes to blurr the colors as I drive…braided ribbons of Autumn lining the country roads, bidding farewell. Smoke rising from chimney’s, the air is filled with the smell of the season’s first fires, redolent of peat burning in the Irish countryside (her eyes are closed and dreaming of Connemara).

I am not ready for winter and yet the woodstoves are alight and I tend to them faithfully (who will strike the match when she is gone?). The colors are fading from the landscape and the song of the cricket is gone from the garden. Each day I wake… the trees are a little more naked and the ground… carpeted gold. I take in the frosty air with the scent of fallen leaves as I gather the wood. Soon the clouds will bring the silence of snow and I will fall in love with winter all over again. Angels will appear and the cardinals will return, blood-red omens watching from the sleeping lilac. And night will look like day when the moon is full… sparkling light reflecting from tiny snowflakes. The coyote’s cry will sound more desolate and I will listen for them in the stillness (frozen flowers from her breath form in the windows as she watches for their shadows moving along the edge of the wood).

I am in this room where I spend my nights by fire and moonlight
letting go of everything… dreaming fall into winter,

trading shells.

October 19th


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