Ex Libris

I sit on the threshold, caught between worlds -

Do I go in, or do I stay out?

Firelight plays across the carpet, yellow, reds, oranges, browns, purples,

Hard to tell where the season begins.

But it just started, so I don’t want it to end too soon.

The leaves outside, clinging to the trees,

Wave to their predecessors through the limned windows,

Inscribed with the knowledge of centuries.

What should I make?

Hot spiced cider? Smoked sausage stew?

Apple dumplings? Pumpkin pudding?

My grandmother’s recipe book is open, waiting,

Perched in pride of place

Like any jeweled and gilded Bible in a cathedral.

Scents whirl around me, mix in the air,

A taste you can hear, a scent you can crunch,

A blend to make a synesthete weep with joy.

Wild geese on the wing, copper spray of leaves,

Cinnamon and nutmeg and a touch of mace,

The snap of an early frost, the lemongrass I harvested,

Apple and butternut and grape-must at the bonfire.

A peep of newt on the kindling,

A whirr of owl on the wing,

A turn of the carousel on its last ride of the season,

Brass rings glitter like gold in the collection bag.

One more bright day before the season of storms,

One last perfect day for a fair or festival.

Take advantage, my monarchs, speed your way south,

Before I enjoy my cuppa at a lightning-rimmed casement,

Secure in the comfort that you are leagues away.

I pluck a book, and last year’s treasure spills out,

The sugar maple and mountain maple and sweet gum and ash,

Bounty of seasons past,

Gathered to the bosom of their ancestors.

I could make a bouquet,

And replace them with this year’s catch

Which bound to me joyfully over the rippling lawn.

We have wings made of air,

We are kites with no strings,

We dance hither and thither in blustery weather.

The leaves invite me to the ball,

Plead with me in rustling whispers from my crossed ankles,

Can I be your partner?

Please?

I gather them in my arms,

And we twirl across the silvery moonbeams.