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There is a drenched season which I adore. She sings to me as the nights lose their fire, sings to me as the leaves purge their blood. I shiver with the ill that she brings every year. I long for the glow of the hearth set against her. Here in this precipitous season does my imagination take flight. To peer in the night at the death of green things, wraiths gliding on the shivering gusts, I listen to their scraping laughter at night. Like the man doomed to die, one last pleasure upon this earth, they skitter about on the ground, scraping their nails against the end. There is a glitter in this wind, a twinkling eye I’ve yet to meet. Run through a corn maze, drunk if possible, and reach the end and stair into the night. Begin to cry, “fuck you!” Return to the crowd pretending you heard nothing. This sopping season calls forth a disease of which I suffer. I know there is a cure, but I hold back from her each year. She wants my heart, she wants me to set it afloat on a river, drown it in a pond. each year she tries as hard as she can to kill me. But I bend, for some reason I always come back. Maybe this year I’ll win. And in this darkness I love, I love, I love the chilling winds and reddened hues, proof that death my hold some beauty.
