Giving it Away

Maple seeds flutter in diminishing coils into my hair and pockets. Autumn gives everything away. The colder dawn breaks with the agony of words which seem to bind and birth that which refuses to be left behind. Like loose gravel tumbling in my mind, thoughts of lips and shoulders holds hostage my clear vision and comfort. I run to push my body further than my mind can reach. For a little while, the pebbles settle into the nooks of presence.

Sunflowers finish and wave along Chicago Drive. October always prods whatever is wild in me. The land begins to burn while its slow smoke rises beyond reach. And surely you must know, I am reaching. Winter sleeps for only a few more weeks and I gain an appetite for getting closer.

With a steady cold rain for days, everything floods. Water pools in the basement so I spend the day working with old towels. One frayed rag has the name of the hospital Dad worked in for all those years; another dons Woody-the-Woodpecker with a large rip across his beak. My childhood is still here.

My legs are wrapped up in jeans now like a nighttime swaddle. An extra blanket sits folded at the end of the bed and my nose is chilly before tucking myself in at night. Sleep crystallizes like a creeping frost giving way to an unwelcome thaw around 3 or 4 a.m. This happens in the fall. I have to work hard to prevent my days and nights from switching places. Winter always finds a way to fuck with me. This year I am stronger and will do more than barely survive.

Bales of hay are wrapped up snug and the smell of pine diffuses – marks – heals. At dawn I lace up my shoes before bluejays arrow and dart to whatever meeting they are always late for. On my way out, I see the candid light of ungraspable love spreading over turning maples and stalwart pines . I see that my frailties are a porcelain curve and yet, a granite spine shores each step.

These paragraphs might be emptying . . . leaking drivel that makes sense only to ether. But they have always been the only love letter I can write.