Going Home

As the crow flies, the path that wanders through the enchanting tangle of the garden is only as long as a sip, and then a second sip, of coffee. Dark roast and pumpkin spice, in a blue pottery mug. Chrysanthemums spilling over crushed stone, brushing against your bare legs with the welcoming bloom of this is what you longed for all along. Old lace curtains fashion a screen door. Air laced with autumn leaves. This longing. To pack up the empty space. The absence in what you’ve come to know and travel the shortest distance to yourself. As the crow flies.

Flourish

I’d gotten flowers for the first time one February. Roses, in a crystal vase. It was very much still winter, and that, I was certain, accounted for the bits of white Styrofoam added to the water. Sticking to the thornless stems. Not melting. My wild heart ached for the roses. Forced blooms and fake snow. An utterly unnatural charade. The only thing genuine about the roses was their color. Screaming red. Intense and urgent. A warning to me, not to settle. Not to sacrifice my truth. Of summer roses. Thriving in soil. Haven for bees and butterflies and wild hearts.

August

Yesterday I sat outside in velvet dusk, my wooden front step bleacher seats front row to summer’s nightly show and I was grieved to find that the fireflies were gone. Nearby, an old dead tree rejoiced though. Autumn can’t come soon enough. Stark skeleton, sticking out like a sore thumb among the limber loose limbed flourishing green leaves. But not for much longer and no more waiting, for the season of leafless. No more waiting to blend in with the still living. Lights out for lightning bugs, yes. But as summer ends, life begins again for old dead trees.