The leaves are just starting to turn –
someone has been tattooing them,
highlighting their silhouettes
and gossamer dew pearls
hang in the grass in the early morning.
We can feel the frost framing our days,
the hint of it in our cups of tea
and in our scarves draped over sweatshirts
(it’s not quite cold enough for a coat yet),
and in the musk of the understory and the fireplaces
that fill our lungs and
we exhale this out into the night and
we form nebulae with the water vapor in our breath.
And when the first echoes of shivers
start to blur our outlines,
we snuggle, sweater to sweater,
and dream of the blushing trees.
These are the shortest days;
We wake well before the sun has even whispered along the horizon,
and rest long after it has slipped back into somnolence,
and the pale skies are wishing they could bask in daylight,
and they are bleakly blue,
heavy-lidded and laden with snow
that blows, blustery,
and we watch from the window in the breakfast nook,
watch as the forest, now gray,
turns to white.
And in the moonlight after the storm,
the lights in our house
paint rainbows on the canvas outside –
perfection’s glittering masterpiece.
The nights might be the darkest,
but we are glowing inside.
The Earth turns to face the sun,
and their romance pulls them closer,
and she laughs as noon rolls ever higher,
and colors bloom on her cheeks.
It’s still chilly in March,
but the warmth of the daylight is brushing the fringes of cold away.
And there is a chorus coming from the treetops,
as they sway in the April rainstorms,
dance along to the cadence on the cobblestones.
We dance too,
and our smiles are songs themselves,
and every note calls for an encore,
and we sing revival into our hearts.
These are the slowest days,
and the heat hangs in the sky,
and insects drift on air thick with
a 90% chance of thunderstorms this afternoon.
The effect is astounding,
and the rolling reverberates in my chest,
and I am curled up on the couch,
watching the lightning tango across the picture windows upstairs,
and there is electricity between
our intertwined hands.
And later in the night, the air is cool,
and there is fog down in the valley,
and we are sitting and roasting marshmallows
and listening to the owls that have come home for the season,
and we are as lazy as the moths
drinking in the moonglow.