Harvest moon

Some evening skies are yellow
And over my head they’re blue
What happened to the green between
It happened to me too
-vashti bunyan, against the sky

Everything you do disarms me in an alarming way. The last few days of summer are finally stamped out with one puff of breath in the morning air of autumn, which has arrived one week early. Driving home from work yesterday, feeling my body unravel all the tension I've collected through spring and summer just trying to resist the inevitable fall, I realized it's useless... There isn't anything I can do to protect myself from the pure gold sunrise melting over a silvery blue sky. I'm sensitive to the cold, that is to say I am always cold, and the cold has begun, or is beginning. Still there is something radiating, no doubt a warming of my blood from some heady bout of love that always strikes me without warning in these early autumn moments. If this season came to me in human form, I know what it would look like. I would recognize that red leaf anywhere, those green eyes turning amber. My reflection captured forever, right next to the mosquito and the fly. Here we are. The planets have aligned a little early or maybe a little late. I'm not one to judge the passing of time. I just know what I feel. I know you'll split me open with all your perfect sunsets, bruising the flesh of a sky that unconditionally holds you. I know I'll give too much of myself as I always do. I know you'll give me pleasure just by being in your presence. I'll take what you give and I'll grow bold. My cheeks will have the rosy glow of youth. I will be kind to everyone I know. I will seek quiet moments of reflection. I will give thanks every time I breathe. I will be inspired. People will notice and wonder. I will tell them it is all because of you. I will tell them I am in love. Soon plumes of smoke will rise from chimneys. Another batch of leaves will fall to cover last years remnants. Tedious hands stand at the ready to create the tatted lace leaves a new autumn demands. I will warm up to the chill and chatter of black-winged birds just before I am ushered into the unbearable silent cold. Alone again and buried in snow. I'll wake up in December and wonder if you were ever there, if you were ever real, if you meant what you whispered that one night in September when your face rose above me like a harvest moon.