Where the Wild Things Are

Moon

[That] night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another.
– Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

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.
Scarlet leaves waltz under wool covered toes and
puddles cast reflections on a cloudy atmosphere
far too enchanting to lead hazy spirits astray.
Watermelon tourmaline and black onyx keep wicked musings at bay.

We munch on candy corn and crunch pumpkin seeds
like sugar plum nutcrackers and feasting chipmunks.
We launch lanterns into the sky,
hoping they will lead lone wolves to safe orchards
and away from murders of crows and leftover bonfires.
I keep cranberry on my lips and cinnamon in my coffee,
leaving warm cider for smaller hands and rosier cheeks.
I long to run under a harvest moon,
echoing a howl from deep within the pools of fire-stained veins.
For it is this time of year that I long to be one with the untamed.
Grow a lioness mane, sing a poetess song.
find a muse whose soul I can forage and study and reap.
Because it is this time of year that the wild ones seek.

– Samantha Prasad

Comments

  1. Absolutely love this. Your use of language here is breathtaking (and gets me so pumped for the fall season!)

  2. Very nice!

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