This morning I was tricked into donning a sweater. It was the cool air through our open window that did the trick. That and the deeper-blue-than-usual sky. Without thinking about it twice, whilst envisioning "bouquets of sharpened pencils", I tugged the sweater over my head. And I think the sweater was pretty surprised to be let out of the closet before October. But we headed out the door to work, still thinking I'd made a wise choice.
At noon it was 85 degrees out, and only getting hotter. My skin bristled under the aggravation of the intolerably out-of-season attire. Thank goodness I had an extra t-shirt in the car. I swear Bronwyn was laughing at me as I hastened to make a quick switch in the back seat at lunch time.
Anyway, I came home feeling overheated, sick and bitter. But as Jon and I enjoyed a round of darts in the open garage, I realized I was shivering once dark had settled on our neighborhood. The autumn feeling was back. Or was I just hallucinating? Rather than go off to bed with bad feelings about summer, I did as any true poet (or wannabe poet) would.
To experience my dance with the anticipation of my favorite season, hiding like a blushing brunette just around September's corner, please read on:
In Anticipation of Autumn
Blow air soft along
my skin. Cool, damp air of autumn,
like lamplight needed sooner,
and sooner.
Long legs
push, rustle, swish
leaves in soft piles.
Crunching footsteps
blending, bending in afternoon
shadow angles, criss-crossed in
apple pie patterns.
Yellow light pools and dreams where
my kitten sleeps, uncurled and untwitching,
wishing for birds to bring down
from the sky. Cornflower,
oceanic afternoon
colored sky.
Counting clouds,
one-two-three-four.
That one looks like a giraffe!
Slide fingers down
smooth surfaces of
yellow pencils; push
at the pink eraser.
Spell generosity, thankfulness, education, diversity.
Scratch on lined paper, swing wide
loops for ells, as you remember
my long-fingered hands
tossing big fluttering bundles of unabashed
leaves, symbols
of another fine season,
traipsing from branches on
a swirling journey
down. Gravity playing
and racing with itself.
Home.
A new sun, shy and retiring, groping
with hot fingers at the evening
breezes easing across my bare feet.
You bring me socks.
I wiggle my toes.
Laughter in our darkening house
Sounds a lot like the leaves we left
Carelessly in the street.
Colorful, love, whispers.
--Audrey Camp, 2006--