...as I lay awake in my bed, a cricket sang outside the door. He sang of summer grass growing cool and strings of geese flying south, over the bend of the globe. He spoke of a falling leaf, burning red as an ember, and the scent of wood smoke on the air.
I listened to his song, the song of autumn shambling near, and I welcomed it as one does welcome a change that brings with it the taste of hope. For I have hope that this autumn will be gentle to me and provide a cooling balm on the aching wound of my heart. Love has left me fallen in a pile of cold ashes and I want to rise and wash these smudges from my skin and shake the smoke from my hair.
I want this chapter I am opening to contain grand plans and fairytales. This Autumn I will strengthen my lungs with crisp, newly minted air and breathe back out the anger and heat of summer. I will mend slowly in my niche, my home, my belonging place, and grow stronger than before. And the weeds that grew up this summer will be pulled up by the roots, dirt dangling from the pale twisted roots, and I will throw them away to be burned. And by the time winter draws near, we will be tucked in and ready, waiting for spring to tap us softly and wake us up, the ground fresh and rich and ready for planting, ready for so much
more than weeds.
