an autumn morning

the air is as damp as the fingerprint ridges of the deck boards, beneath my bare feet, are hard. i came here to be alone, but i know i am not. you are always here when i seek solitude.

the sun rises slowly like my body rising from the bed, clinging tight to the womb of warm sheets on the cool fall morning. we have grown older together. though both of us smile as we rise.

good morning, i say and though you are silent a bird calls from the nest it has made in the crooked limbs of the pear tree and i know this is your answer.

five deer, heads bowed, pick through the grass with their tongues for something to eat. one perks his head measuring me, then continues to eat.

leaves fall, a dry autumn rain in ochre and saffron, golden, delicious, words whistling off them like old parchment. their puddles crunch beneath my feet as i walk the boundaries of the land that has been given to me, to call mine.

how do they know when to let go? is it just their time? has their season just ended? and why are they at their most brilliant right before they die? can i?

we talk without words, without sound. i am alone. i am not. the sun is now fully up , the veil is pulled back on an awakening world, still sleeping without dreaming.

i would invite you in for a cup of coffee but i know you will be there to, so i make the turn by the tree house back toward home. we will sit at the long mahogany table, you filtering through the window, enlightening lines, as i flip through your pages and we take our first sips.

Imperfect Prose.

This also happens to be my two year blogoversary (post #753). Thank you for sharing the journey with me, thus far.