The full harvest moon is coming.
The culling, the bounty, the closing of doors,
and covering of skin.
A waft of blue light coils like smoke
in the air, marking
the end of summer and the
beginning of fall, a stasis,
windless and undecided.
It contains our first kiss.
It contains our fingertips electric with intent.
It contains the momento mori of moments that once lived
as a lithesome golden body at the end of summer,
never able to give itself entirely to the commitment of winter.
We were like a boat methodically created in a glass jar,
always causing the same reaction in the viewer of
both awe followed by why?
Had the wind blown a different way or
a waitress stood between us at the moment our eyes met
this in-between place would only ever have been marked by the
muted drop of leaves,
the harbinger of black whispery branches scratching
over white houses.
I told you once you were my muse.
I suppose you still are at this time of year.
A wisp of coloured smoke,
a sharp intake of breath, held,