Here, Saturday

The wind is strong, the air is silver. Or is it grey? The sky is grey, in that bright, impenetrable, there-is-no-more-sky-only-blankness way, but the wind jostles the trees and comes in to swirl in my clean apartment, and I think the air is silver because it feels like such a gift to feel the season start to turn like this, to hold this day in the palm of my hand, to hug my world to myself, a new world after all the sun and heat I’m now accustomed to.

It’s September now. There’s time for burrowing into the couch, or spreading my limbs as I lie on the carpet. A dark morning asks for lit candles on my desk, and I oblige. I know that lighting a different mood can make for magic sometimes; it could trick me into writing.

I look forward to hot evening baths on winter nights. I’ve tidied the apartment day after day because I want to welcome friends in whenever I can, and to feel the peace of this refuge every evening. I still dream of road trips, of lakeshores and bare feet, but also of fiery trees and warm scarves. My wanderlust will not be sated, but now that things are different, I’m trying to hone in on home, on here, instead of my focus always flitting around with all the different theres.

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