In a muted room next to a dying fire maybe it is easy enough to imagine letting it all fade. House noises thin to an almost-silence broken here and there by the refrigerator hum or climbing heat from the furnace. October's best moon burns through its foggy veil. I burn too. Still. Always.
At the new feeder, birds tell the only news I want to hear. Hours liquesce watching tiny antics. Light upon light. But it's still not enough to end it all, my wordy friend . . . is it? In the distance of that memory, purple hills rise out of the gentle clearing. Soon winter's bride will be all we can see. Yet for now, the heart and mind backpedal towards summer's heat of almost. Pines stand around us like a grove of chaperones. Eagles lead the way home.
Now, stacking winter's wood and clearing piles of absent minded leaves. July is estranged but October has its charms – ripped blue jeans, puffy jackets with loopy scarves, and warm kisses beneath cold noses. Our walk in the woods is louder. Our chesty sleep is heavy with blankets. Only, you know . . . our dreams cry out for heat that has left.
Yoga before dawn. Ceylon tea. A walk with the dog as far as she will go. The world wears me until skin shows through the husk. Move. Make the bed. Carry the weight of everything unsaid. Let's not do it this way, okay?