lay down roots
Your love makes me move at the speed of trees. I've laid down some roots, grown a head full of make-believes, but up above me, where the angels soar, they're rattlin' windows and blowin' down doors. They look at me here, I'm planted square down on my knees. I'm asking for the speed of trees.
All weekend spent here at work, scratching text and sprinkling quotation marks and reshuffling the magazine. Too much coordination for the graceless. Feels a bit like I'm falling off a very high trapeze, but the air feels clean while rushing by my face. I close my eyes and inhale.
The air came straight through the valley three days ago, pulling Fall on its back. It's 67 degrees today, but the apple trees are still kind of empty.
This is the way Autumn moves through me. Only August now, but I already feel it coming with its wind and its wildfire. If I could make love to a month, I would court October and its red maples. I would have a torrid love affair with its harvest moon and lay down in the dying grass with my hair saturated-- smelling of woodsmoke.