I love this time of year. Poetry stirs deep within my bones. Inspiration does not flock with the southern birds, but chirps a sumptuous legato. Bitter tannins seep from fruitful bark even in the embrace of the howling wind. And I remain outdoors just to watch the clouds part for a blood orange moon – a jack-o-lantern sky painted with purple stars and frozen breath.
The clouds hung heavy with autumn air this morning. The last summer cherries stifled the air with their crimson blooms. Dimples dipped into the corners of my mouth like dark sea star shadows on the shoreline. I will have to remember this feeling. When life is far harder than it is now. When the spools unravel and the salt settles rather than crystallizes. When gravity levels even the ocean floor. I will inhale the sweet nectar of this morning.
I miss gazing up at the stars and discussing science over spirituality. Or science with spirituality. Because in my world, one has never trumped the other. I want to talk about white lights and wordless wishes. An earful of milky ways and big dippers. What’s really up there. Heaven? Galaxies? Aliens? Astronauts climbing asteroids? Let me know the universe as not one or the other. But as all. Because I miss it.
They look at me unknowingly. A creature of a mythical past. Hair of cinnamon sprinkles and fins of urban legend scales. Windmills of honey and grim reaper tales. I flip over sea shells and breathe with aquamarine lungs. Scarlet eyes and white lights. Magic combs and unknown explorers. They crave curiosity, but fear the unexpected.