October.

October is trial and flame; bruises and dry wine. It's a church window of leaden, sore mornings and chipped panes of cobalt blue glass where sad-eyed saints and ruby-sashed martyrs stand with shepherd's staffs pointing Heavenward.

Why does this voice sharpen the ear more keenly than the stone murmur of the crowd?

A storm of leaves bled orange, gold, and pale green by the waning sun, sign the wind in dizzy flight before collecting in wet islands on the bitter asphalt, thick with their rain-sweet scent.

What strays remain on the silver branches shake in cold bouquets of fire, mimicking the red-gold rust of sunset and the long fallen fruits of May. Time takes deep breaths.

On the sidewalks, ash green piles scatter and reform, mingling with custard yellows and shining reds.

The air smells like hickory and wax and the earthy, smoky scent of pumpkins left out in the rain.

And hidden among the wet leaves and branches thrown like runes, longing seeks acknowledgement and hopes for reciprocity.

It is a silent prayer reaching towards the sun-marbled sky like lonely breath, a pale vapor seen only for a moment and then lost in the shudder of fall and the crescendo of the dull, gray choir; of the smoke long surrendered to the clouds.


Originally published here as "Trial. Flame." November 4, 2009. 


Cover photo: Steveen Manon from New York, United States. Cropped and slightly edited by Daniel Case prior to upload. Via Wikimedia Commons.