Autumn Leaves
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? In the blink of an eye, it seems, the seasons have already shifted, and my heart along with them, or so I like to tell myself.
I can’t help but wonder when exactly the leaves became a swirl of shimmering red and gold wisps, or when the wind became a shade cooler, or when the first pristine speck of snow waltzed lazily through the air to land delicately on a blade of brittle grass. I can’t seem to remember much these days, but that’s alright.
The days grow long with the shadows of your favorite trees.
I still see you when I open the heavy oaken door (which still protests whenever it’s opened with a distant cry, like it too is mourning for a love lost to the relentless flow of time, for a future unjustly taken too soon, for dreams splintered and shattered and vanished, almost as if they never existed at all — as if they were never there, as if the tapestry of time had disintegrated into dust and memories were set aflame. It might as well take my heart, too).
I still see you when I watch the falling sun and rising stars and overcast skies (which have dimmed with the loss of you, which have wept for the loss of you, which have thundered for the loss of you, which have pleaded and begged and yearned for another fleeting glance, for another fleeting touch, for another fleeting moment, for another declaration of everlasting love, for anything, anything, anything other than this cursed emptiness in my heart).
The days grow long, and soon I’ll hear old winter’s song.
I still hear you with every note I sing (alone), every harmony I build (alone), every tune I hum (alone), every whistle of birds and calls of the little creatures whose names you patiently taught me.
The wind’s howling reminds me of myself, in a way. But I can’t seem to remember what that means. Strange, is it not?
I miss the rustle of parchment, the ticking of the dusty, ticking, gaudy timepiece, the pattern of the flowerbeds, the pounding of rain, the crack of thunder, the silence of nothing and everything at once — all of it has gone with you. Burned by the sun, embedded in the gilded leaves that are miraculously hanging on, tethering themselves to life, but not for long. Not for long.
But I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall.
Yet when memories slip from my trembling grasp, I can not find it within myself to feel. To grieve, to bow my weathered head and offer half-felt condolences.
Everything had been taken, anyway. (What’s one more?)
_
Title: “Gold”
In summer, the leaves are green
The mighty oak stands, and
spring waters flow down, down, down
and stop.
Gold — how precious it is.
How beautiful, how terrible,
how kind, how harsh
next to you.
You shine the brightest, always.
Nature’s gold does not compare
to the essence of your kind soul.
It is lovely.
Unbridled with passion, burning with fury,
Dazzling in its compassion,
blinding in its morality.
Unforgiving in its —
mercy.
In fall, the leaves turn
warm, and cold, and brittle,
and brilliant gold,
lively in their looming death.
Gold — how delicate it is.
Fragile yet strong,
loud but — shh
quiet.
Thank you for reading! If something about my first work seems familiar, it’s because it was inspired by the song “Autumn Leaves” by Nat King Cole, one of the very first songs I performed with a choir. :)
