I think the reason most people are so drawn to autumn is because it’s representative of change which leads to hope. The leaves will transform and fall, but they will also be born again.
Not everything can fit in a single description.
Some things have no mold.
It’s not good or bad. It’s life. It’s existence.
Far better it is to live with open arms, uncategorizing minds, and loving hearts;
for not every heart is loving.
Most are bitter, jealous, and full of pride.
To find balance and perspective would free the envious anchors that weigh down love.
Silk sands ripple through my toes
like smooth ribbons thoughtfully
weaving around an ornate corsage.
There’s a comfort in the dense
and salty wind that beckons
hair away from the shoulders —
the tide as it slowly wages in
and bubbles as it leaves.
I pick up a shell where
I can hear the whispers of home.
Take me back please,
take me back to the sea.
Why do I feel warmth in your wake?
Why does your darkness make my fingers
glow as I reach for your hand on the pavement?
Is it because you finally found your peace?
Or maybe that your courage was too strong
to completely fade so you linger here with me?
May I hide under the shade of your wing?
I won’t let the feathers touch the ground.
I promise never to leave you;
I will always look toward that gleam in the sky.
Close those lids of yours,
seal ’em good and tight.
It won’t be too long now.
My restful head is empty
ready for you to return
and fill me full of bliss
because not one ailment
is buried in our brains
when our minds meet in sleep.
I’ll see you in that place
where our dreams morph,
our thoughts flee,
and goodbye has no meaning.
That delicate little box you gave me,
I keep in the corner of my room
on the windowsill
where the sun dances —
illuminates the unguilty white wrapping
protects and keeps it warm.
Though the dust continues to settle,
the package remains as pure
as the blank page of a book
and as loyal as the sweetness to sugar.
I remember the day you held me tight
as you placed it in my hand, the covering
soft and thoughtful, my fingers
so unworthy to touch it.
You whispered in my ear.
I said nothing back.
Some things are too late.
Maybe tomorrow I will give it the love
that I never allowed you to know.
Maybe tomorrow I will dress it in bows.
Patch worked chamomile,
soft ripples soothe
my lips as I inhale
of an elated