At this time every year we leave our hearts out on the windowsill at night. We yearn to bleed the shades of autumn.We vow to make use of our color theft. We are eager to feel alive. The browns and maroons and auburns will passionately flow through our veins.They keep our hands warm and gentle, our cheeks rosy and young.

Our eyes are cryptic. Refreshed and ready…

 We dye our skin in the smoke of a bonfire on a cool evening. The smell lingers on for days, blending with the memories of the way the wood splintered.

The flame’s articulation counts down the minutes we share.

 Our bare feet require warm socks, our necks desire a scarf, as the new brisk breeze blows summer away.

 The sunset's last grasp is fading; its fingers are stretched and mirrored over a pond's face as the last bullfrog searches for his winter hiding place.

The laughter of crickets slowly traces its way past the timbers edge.We mimic the hissing with our heartbeats.

We follow and interpret the maps created from the leaves against the cracks in the sidewalk. The wind chooses to blow our paths differently but the patterns often intersect and overlap. 

Our dreams are laid out in the limbs of a bare oak tree.

Silhouettes and shadows cast across our yards, across our faces, across our souls.

 At this time every year, as all the greens slowly drain away, my heart fills with love made from death.

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