Season of Mists...

Days like these I recall
dew-soaked hedgerows –
the sting of cold, wet grass
on my legs; slanting shadows –
when night would do its damndest
to outrun day, and the hours
between sun and shade,
far more pressing.

Blackberries – caviar to me,
then; rich and ripe and bursting
on the tongue. Sparkling leaves,
like so many stars – twinkling
in the half-light of the scrim;
constellations – uncharted,
unfabled by time, and an Emperor
ascending, all burnished golds
and browns, to flit to fly
to warmer climes.

Days like these I want to be
seventeen again, and with that boy
with those strange, dark eyes
said they loved me to the tune
of a lark ascending, and all
his lips did not say, woven
in a tapestry of forevers – to feel
the sting, of cold, wet grass
on my legs.