It is almost winter and autumn is just beginning to fade away into mid-November. The fog looms over the brown twigs and earth; a thin white veil, transparent enough to allow in only the faintest memory of the bright colors of summer-time. The moment is still as a baby bird. Like a painting it hangs on the wall of a very famous and old museum. People come here often and wish they could jump inside of it. Out of the tired and gray places where they learn to rest their heads. Into the timeless promise of nature, serenity and eternity. Here the people are always smiling, sipping on green tea in tiny porcelain tea cups their grandmothers left in passing. Warmth is never left behind in a fire place built of brick. Not in this place. Nor is it ever left in the arms of lovers or in the loyalty of a dog. It is taken everywhere in tiny containers hand crafted out of tin and glass and wood. It is the most important and necessary element that can be found anywhere in the world. It is the ingredient for life. It is love and it is in every corner of every bungalow and every mansion. It is found in every coat pocket and in every molecule that makes up a rocking chair and a fire fly and a canoe. It is everywhere and easily found if you just open your eyes.
Look for me on the mountaintop, where the Spanish rain pours down like honey dew and mist. I will be the one holding the flame, whistling the song, remembering your name. I will be the one with the rhyme and the music and the white swan. I have not moved from this place in centuries. The books have all been read. The letters have all been sent. The rules have all been broken. But your voice remains as silent and vague as a red Indian summer. The love is sticky, the voices are trapped inside the mirrors. Nothing is going right without you here. The architect builds everything leaning slightly to the left. I lean into you, into your memory, into the wide and open moon. It's dark tonight. It's black and beautiful. It's everything, but it's not you.
It is winter, and it’s summer, then the light fades into autumn. When I see you I am in another story written by another author. But then you pull me out of my shirt and out of my skin and I am in the river again where everyone is dancing. I find freedom in the blue grass and saxophones. I find your lighter and your voice in the latest hour of the night. It is just the two of us in a storm of cigarette smoke and an unbelievable imagination. And I don't know who imagined who, if it was me or if it was you.