Autumn From Wildwood’s Porch

The voices.

Distant.  Child-like.

Orange and burnt-umber.

The sun.

Radiant.

Gentle.

A warming and a cleansing.

Not a scorch, but an invitation.

Summoning me

to stay.

Barely perciptible breeze.

Enough to tease the curtains into dancing

but not enough to alter a hair on my head.

The air

smells

ready –

anticipating

camp fires

and wood smoke

and pumpkin pie.

Two squirrels circle our giant oak tree.

They’ve left behind acorns to chase one another.

I can’t decide if they are

fighting

or playing

or loving.

Or all three.

This porch provides a portal

to

Time Standing Still.

for this blink/blip/sigh/moment/millisecond

of my life.

I’ll take it.

I’ll measure it in

breezes

and

crushed leaves underfoot

and

the smell of chill like a gift.