once more the leaves are falling, drifting, maybe just escaping. there is a mist clawing its way across the soft earth, swirling around the grand pillars of trees. we grab handfuls of mulch and throw them like snowballs, kick at what's left with the remains of anger and upset. a low murmur in the background might be the birds, might be the wind, might be those that would laugh at us ~ we steer clear of picking out voices and words. an hour wasted, an hour newly gained to do nothing but wander(wonder) and be soaked from the inside out, starting at your bones. they float in and out of view, of the mist, of existence. as children play and love what they live, so do these new effigies, clear as smoke dissolving into the autumn air: my favourite air, my favourite leaves, my favourite beings. they cant harm us, the wont. they think and feel like angels, dead decaying angels.
i had a polaroid camera for a while once, and the pictures that came out of it were pinned to a wall in my home with drawing pins that cannot be drawn with. they stayed perfect happy memories of my younger years, the street outside my house - our house - but they faded after time. maybe it was a week, maybe it was months, im not sure anymore. my memory has left like a quick exhale and my body clock broke long ago. i dont want to waste my memories, or loose them, or misplace them by leaving them at your house or on the train there.
buddha's sit on top of your fireplace , leaves were stapled to the walls, reminders of past autumns, past years lost, past halloweens, joy and mist, mist and mulch snowballs and visions of ghosts.
they stand near me, welcome my pale polaroids as they fall through the air like leaves, or rain (maybe something wet like rain and cold like snow but from the tiny clouds above my eyelids and not the rain clouds in the sky.)
leaves from my fingertips, ghosts from my eyes, mist from my mouth.
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