Autumn leaves drift by the window. Autumn leaves of red and gold.
According to my faithful book index, GoodReads, I have only read 22 books in 2011. Last year, I read 32 books by year’s end and vowed publicly that I would read at least that many in 2011. I suppose I could hurry through 11 short novellas and meet the goal, but is that what a resolve is all about? Is it about meeting the letter of the resolution while breaking the intent?
I see your lips, the summer kisses, The sunburned hands I used to hold.
I intended for this year to be chockerblock full of reading and writing. Instead it’s been a year of frantic action . . . helter skelter movement as opposed to thoughtful introspection. I did not mean for it to be so busy. Honest, I didn’t. The year started out so relaxed, so full of earnest reflection. The beach in Zanzibar. The meditative mornings. The trip to Berryville.
Since you went away, the days grow long. And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song.
Time which seemed so abundant in January hit a patch of ice and now it is almost Thanksgiving. What thief absconded with my early mornings, quiet evenings, and lazy weekends. And, why was I an accomplice to the crime? When did I start pushing away the days? What conspiracy led me to complain nonstop about spring’s saturating rains and summer’s humidity? Was I really in such a hurry to face my kids’ first quarter interim grades? Yes, I am to blame for having wished away the year. Ah, time . . . if only.
I miss you most of all, my darling, When autumn leaves start to fall.