Cathedral of Leaves

What fills the place of desire? Back to flesh and blood, tethered. Perhaps, grounded? Cold rain brings down the last cathedral of leaves – whispered sighs of ochre falling. How November tilts and tangos with winter is similar to a certain melancholy found after letting go. A season must pass. Who am I to say otherwise?

A week after the hard snow it melts to uncover more fallen leaves than expected. It will snow again soon but for now, mud kicks up onto the back of my legs when pushing through worn trails. There is no more flower dust or muttering frogs or rattling cicada. Instead, gunshots in the distance, the muted traffic of Chicago Drive and a softly moaning train heading west.

This time of year a certain type of pain is delivered to my doorstep day after day. It arrives uninvited to stay as long as it wishes. It cuts me off from the capacity to nurture and care. This same sender tucks me in at night with the heaviest blanket so that in the morning, I cannot rise. My body curls towards the window but the curtains are drawn. Sometimes I turn toward the nightstand to watch my clock mark every missed conversation or event or task. Don't worry; it will pass. Everything always passes.

In my dream last night, we sat on a backless bench. You faced one way and I faced the other, our proximities overlapped. A subconscious speaks with or without me.

A line has been drawn through the heart of autumn. This time around, it separates wounds from love. When the swirl of leaves settles and snowfall becomes a weighted blanket, what remains? Who manages to stack the wood and feed the fire? That woman is a sterile spectre floating from room to room, making coffee, folding clothes, cleaning toilets. Yet she remains, to write letters, starving for sunlight. Still kneeling to the Preceptor. Still unsure what a heartbeat is for.