Pigeon Heart Ponderings

I guess it’s ok to write another poem about autumn. There are countless leaves that fall & no one says “ooh- another leaf. Ok, I get it.” with any kind of spite. Or maybe there’s someone out there that does. And means it. There’s always someone who doesn’t think of life as precious, or doesn’t take the liberty to check in, periodically to the ever-present-potential-of-wow. This is why I walk. I’m a wow hunter. A wow seeker. It’s not a stabby thing. It’s not a “slay all day” kind of thing. It’s a marvel of things. At things. With names. With feelings. It’s hold-an-apple-and-press-it-to-my-nose-&-appreciate-the-temprature-of-it-&-the-weight-of-it-&-the-smell-of-it-before-taking-a-bite. It’s an indulgent type of thing. Prolonged indulgence. It’s for those of us who open the largest present last. It’s a wake-up-at-leisure-come-morning-&-paddle-to-the-kettle-&-force-myself-to-keep-it-slow, maintaining promises of weekend tea time, in chair, with new-day-sily-sky illuminating the room from behind me, in front of me casting soft shadows from my cold feet by forgotten sock promises but it’s ok because I know it’s good to feel the elements beyond my comfort by small margins at least. It’s a lean-in kind of thing.

The crows sound like they know it’s the time of equinox. What do the mostly blushing, bright orange, orbs that appear like loose clockwork upon everyone’s doorsteps with curious cut-outs mean to them? I am suddenly struck with a deep sadness in never being able to truly be wise to nostalgia in crows. Or much else for that matter. Will I ever know what it’s like to have a wild bird land on me -both of us in good health- as an act of trust? So many honors in one lifetime to achieve.

Last night I put on a long, black dress, red lipstick, & knee-highs & went to the ballet. The playbill said it was a men’s ballet, because it was Dracula; featuring death, immortality, menace, an unspecified but ever growing amount of brides… A man’s ballet. I peeked at every dancer’s uncovered areas best I could, hungry to see their skin; their muscles working at optimum levels; imagining going home & kicking so high & elegantly in the privacy of my own living room, by candle light, or no light at all; wishing for a personal trainer of such caliber; amazed by the beauty of gathering & synchrony; of the deep need to connect movement to music; of envy at others knowing their path so early on. The air outside rang of the season, & yes- hoards of crows silhouetting across the blue pallet of night.

One of my healthiest-consuming friends suggested we get hot chocolate. I will keep her words like a replenishing hall pass & trade it in soon enough. Maybe twice. Or thrice.

So far no mice here, but I wonder if squirrels will use my house as a cold night refuge. Maybe I’m a season ahead of myself. I’ve grown wise to the shallow tunnels they’ve dug in the garden I planted; upending new seeds taking root in premature aeration. I guess they know better than I. Now is the time to plant bulbs & soon will be for garlic. I got the braiding kind & will plant it on Halloween, rain or shine.

The trees are just beginning to turn. My heart feels suspended & I love this side of myself. I love knowing that I will be buoyed in a calm, continuous, slow burn of inspiration & joy, reliably during this time of year. It’s upon me now. And I’m honoring the chair beneath me even though my feet want to go outside already.

I already made soup this week. And I got my mind on squash & squash on my mind. And pies. I hardly make pies, but in my imagination I am a pie person who brings pies to my neighbors. I want to find pie-time. Time seems to be the hardest thing for me to find or get to work with me. Mental note to conduct a poll to see if anyone has not enough, perfect amount, or too much.

Time to go take my dog out to run in the fresh, crisp air.