stropping across the surface,
buttering the toast.
The bite of the air
chilling my poor, aging bones
tea is my armor
I embrace the air
tickling, prickling on the skin
and I breathe in deep
From the bones of history, ice grinds against ice and the blanket of thick, heavy air, as cold as oblivion slides down from the frozen north to the southern seas and suddenly it is Fall. Not Autum, for that is warm with color and apples dunked in hot caramel and propped on sticks and the laughter of goblins, but Fall where the wind is unbated by the leaves in the trees and we remember the fridged crone's fingers that pokes the chest and the frailty of our bones.
Cold and wet and miserably, a hint of things to come. For now the trees are fat with their leaves, steeped in sun rich green. Our first color of the season is the bright yellow busses, National School Bus Chrome to be exact, tolling down the side road, their pilot skilled abundantly, moving their cumbersome ark nimbly through the tight streets while an ant parade of back to school book bags of Royal Blue with reflective stripe or Fauna Pink with reflective stripe or clear sans reflective strive and instructions not to play in traffic trudge to the nouveau designed torture chambers of brick, windows that won't open and fluorescent lights to be bored to tears about things they can't fully comprehend, like the Arch Duke Ferdinand and Mustard Gas and syphilis and where drills of duck and cover have been replaced by active shooter.
Yes, that fall.
So much to be done before the lingering nights are upon us. I best get to it.