sticks and stones, sweaters, dry leaves and crisp air, lonely whistling breezes in skeletal branches, fat yellow moons, books of druidic ways, hot black sweet sweet tea, all the nostalgic information of my childhood: tasha tudor, tracks on repeat, hunter wellies, large sweaters with delusions of 1980s ralph lauren moor-centric romance, tiny gold star confetti, ichabod and mr. toad, sly-eye goats and trees offering apples.
the earth becomes wild again, like the family dog that jumps the fence at night with all the other neighborhood pets. deep sleep, rainfall, nag champa, knitting, mulled wine, feverish planning of costumes, beeswax, ray bradbury, carving jacks, telling the bees, the bad moon rising, faded blueygreen pumpkins, sage.
it's a partial return to primordial chaos and i want more more more always more. camping, haunted drives, sighs in the woods, obscure hollows, a certain film about the bell witch that only i love, the wild hunt, everything that grows goes to bed. fleshy white tubers creep silent under the black black earth with moist whispers and conspire with their messengers the crows to fill the air with bristling electricity-ozone that crouches and waits for halloween.
autumn is a great black beast and we can pacify it by loving it, loving that it is not winter at all yet. it's like scratches behind the ears. light a candle against the dark and remember to fear it.
autumn is a great black beast and we can pacify it by loving it, loving that it is not winter at all yet. it's like scratches behind the ears. light a candle against the dark and remember to fear it.
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