Earlier, I prepared the rose bush for winter, cutting back stalks to a shape more fitting of burlap. Yet from the lacerations, three orphaned blooms.
Late. Soft. Sublime.
Roses so far into September are an unexpected gift. Fog settles over the muck fields each dawn, but no frost means the Indian Summer is yet at large. But I don't care anymore, really. I'm ready for autumn and its winter wake. The language of the land has rewritten the story I thought I knew by heart.
Today the sun warmed my westerly bedroom back to summer's inviting hand. Blanket to my lips, I slept into the heart of afternoon.
Enfolded. Tended. Held.
The time for truth has slipped beyond. And text eclipses the moon. What I mean is, the effortless breeze sweeps mountain peaks and valley lakes the same. It brushes the belated rose and moves my autumn curtains to reveal the gentle grace of what is always invited.