Kicking through the autumn leaves, and wondering where it is you might be going to

Summer is late, my heart.

Words plucked out of the air

some forty years ago

when I was wild with love

and torn almost in two

scatter like leaves this night

of whistling wind and rain.

It is my heart that's late,

it is my song that's flown.

Outdoors all afternoon

Under a gunmetal sky

staking my garden down,

I kneeled to the crickets trilling

underfoot as if about

to burst from their crusty shells:

and like a child again

marvelled to hear so clear

and brave a music pour

from such a small machine.

What makes the engine go?

Desire, desire, desire.

The longing for the dance

stirs in the buried life.

One season only,

and it's done.

So let the battered old willow

thrash against the windowpanes

and the house timbers creak.

Darling, do you remember

the man you married? Touch me,

remind me who I am.

-Stanley Kunitz

The seasons are turning, and I can feel the shifting and the chill setting in somewhere deep inside my bones. Now seems as good a time as any to curl up and hibernate. To make yourself thick hot chocolate with Irish cream, to watch Mila Kunis movies, to read your books. To try to start setting your head straight. To get certain things - be it the lost loves or the hurt or the chemicals - slowly, slowly out of your system. To begin to feel better.

I guess I never knew
What she was talking about
I guess I never knew
That she was living without

People speak of love, don't know what they're thinking of
Wait around for the one who fits just like a glove
Speak in terms of the life and the living
Try to find the word for forgiving
People speak of love...

You keep it up
You try so hard
To keep a life from coming apart
And never know
The shallows and the unseen reefs
That are there from the start
In the shape of a heart...

-Jackson Browne

It’s autumn again,

and I can do anything.

-Dorothea Grossman

Love, doughnuts and Julie Cooper xxx