Sacridity

 It’s a November morning -

 warm for this time of the year. 

This hot sun stopped me -

 Scary - right? - Who am I talking to? - thoughts scatter.

Sacridity.

 long patterns, hardening habits, warnings 

 some seem out

 of the blue - some.  Not me. 

 This? This is familiar. This 

 just has me contemplative. Content. Known, but new.

It’s Sunday.

One of those rare moments when everybody’s asleep -

 no particular plans,

 the kind of day I live for 

 in the kind of month I’ve usually just tried to get through. 

This November though, the leaves haven’t all quite fallen -

 these beautiful bright oranges, deep golds, yellows, 

 even the greens have caught my eye 

 unexpectedly bright with contrast and glow.

All of them drying from dark but revealing Carotenoids and Xanthophylls

 That same nuance of petrichor 

  wiggling and giggling 

  startlingly slick with sweet slant light.

Dickenson’s truth is so queer it makes me laugh.

• Even the ones on the ground glide and dance in a breeze

 whipping them around whispering to me soft tones and cool notes of winter.

It’s all clear inside now and striking 

 even then as the white puffy clouds over there, and        

 at night - my eyes drop - see those sharp bright stars through the thick         blanket of deep, dark padded violet… 

That’s just from what I can recall

  in that moment I looked up last night too, and stopped 

  just taking out garbage.

It’s just a regular November morning though.

Same as all the others I’ve seen now

 more than half I’ll ever see, most likely.

Did you know that wood is the rarest substance in the universe?

It climbs right there all the way up to its highest lingering leaf and points

 standing out to me now as air

 mixes with time

 kisses with light.

 It sways now, gently from a world I have literally never touched,

 and only just begun to even see.