Love letter # 59

Sunlit autumn afternoons…they are like my desire.

The satin soft shimmer of summer; cool-edged and minty now. The preposterous, quixotic belief that somehow this warmth will linger; absurd like my stubborn dream.

In this inexorably chilling air, the ghost of a song; its echo receding to inevitable hush. I whisper to these burnt gold leaves – do not fall – knowing they must. And with steamy breath I pray for the sun’s return. As I sing for you.

I am sure I will sleep tonight hoping to wake in spring, even though I know I will not. That’s what all these ridiculous words are for. They are the Indian summer of a fevered hunger. They are the last beautiful day.

And in this lovely, gilded air – soft like your gaze used to be – I can almost believe. Enough, at least, to ask aloud for one more twirl in the light, for one last tumble of dice. For there is a fire burning here. Warm enough for you.