Abiqui, New Mexico. 2011
I am taking the month of October off to work on other projects and hold on to fall. October is my favorite month. My dad turns 39 again, my Ayla turns eight, and Noah and I have our ten year anniversary. I'm hoping for a beautiful autumn, but right now the rain has left all the colors muted and dull. Still, the forecast holds promise. We will buy our marshmallows and stoke our fires. Every day in the morning light I watch blue and red birds dart like hope and passion grown from trees. Something you could either harvest, or pass and let it lie. I miss the high desert, the audacity of the colors and the land. I read Rumi and make plans for other lives. Characters on the page. "Blades will sprout / where you do your work". I wish I could send you the scent of my beehive, which more than once has made me nearly cry. All summer long they've labored. They've created nothing short of heaven. If sacred love had a scent, it would be this. The scent is golden, it is dripping, like a memory of childhood and grass. It is the fragrance of the feel of sunlight on your eyelids. The only thing to do is survive the winter. I want to be like the bees and never fret or ask why. They cut back their brood-rearing and seal off their doors. Already their tired wings seek succor. Already their bee-minds think of spring.
Kenosha Pass, Colorado. 2010
