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CAVEAT
There is a place called |
October 02, 2005
It is but a passing thought. For no one writes about October. It is only about falling leaves and disappearing greens or when rain becomes a constant companion to waking up and making love. But there it is. Sometime this October, when cold cackles with every movement and the blankets have been brought out and fingers are sore from being tangled all night with another's, I will think of summer and how longing blazed through the season engulfing thread and fiber leaving a shimmering nakedness of bronzes and golden hues. Hues that have turned into coffee-colored stains. As they will change again, hour after day after week until, sometime this October. Even when there are no stars, I will think of making wishes on things hidden but have been there for ages, knowing there must be something that will teach me how to light a fire to melt stony silences. And if the secrets of myths cannot be known, I will be drawn instead, again, in front of misting windows to exhale a burst of hot breath and to write words that will disappear as soon as my fingers shaped them. Yet I write, still, until repetition carved empty space. And when the air thickens, unfurling on the edges of what was painstakingly etched out of seeming nothingness, the lines will shine like a beacon: this October, someone wrote about the fierceness of passion, so willingly eclipsed by a steady warmth on a moonless night. blue rogue |
