Midas,
have you ever seen October dressed
in
morning, just west of the great divide?
The
air grows light and easy here, hanging
in
the balance of sunbeams and chill,
not
flavored of afternoon familiarity, no dung
or
tumbleweeds this time. Just aspen gold
at
rest on blankets of evergreen. Breathe
deep,
my darling, you can smell the leaves.
And
what is it you recall of our summer days?
That
you left your fingerprints upon my skin,
the
shade of my hair across your face
in
some oddly shared dream?
You
say your city is different now, it no longer
respects
your barriers. It breaks down
your
connectivity. It rushes you. You say
you
cannot write in such a place.
Midas,
I am statue still and golden like October.
I’ve
stored my tears in tiny bottles
for
you to drink and live again. And if my autumn
offerings
are not the awakening you seek
I
shall become a pastel flock of paper swans
floating
on Lake Biwa in
the spring.
The
white diamonds of Everest’s cap.
A
sand hued snake in the middle of the Sahara,
jambalaya
in New Orleans. Anything
you
need, love, just let me see the touch
of
your words upon a world left shimmering,
trembling
by you as I have been.
Magazine