This is a word I cannot say given its sonorous equivalaince to “whore-y” but I miss it. Today is one pleine des vestiges of Father Time. A mountain side holds her morning clouds to her, the wind has found my vulnerable ankles. The sides of the bridge, the steel trunks of street lights, the knobs on the doors are well chilled, frosted up and down, biting my fingertips on contact. Dear fall, I love this cooling. The heart pumps faster, the blood keeps pace, I feel the mind retrieving what was lost in the summer. I feel my muscles tightening about my frame as if to warm, finding those oblique fibers, concentrating their space.
Green is more potent on grey, I think. As is red and orange, on turn, on green. Fall gives the scene a sharpening, the grass recently bladed with frost, leaves divulging their veins. The sun’s path is more precious, those hours we have now, slower to warm and melt the moon’s work. And that moon, sitting yellow in its fog, is beautiful enough to cry to. C’est air ici est getting to me. It’s woken me and has me searching for my pen, a soft dream of Xanadu dispelled in the urgency to write it.
It is to me to warm me. Je me leve un peu plus tôt, je me sens un peu plus vive. More red on my lips. More blood running through. Plus de l’encre, plus je te veux.