Stifle the nutmeg and bring out rich leather, weave in notes of dying hay and cold stars.
It is still too warm here to hope to catch autumn's scent, the bitter chill and crackling sounds. It is the end of summer of all our end of days, here, so far away from dim nights lit by poison-green firefly flashes and a single kiss in the darkest corner of the porch.
Every overheated day I weave another daisy chain of dull words, despite the heaviness, the dreary humidity. I want book-weather, knitting-weather, bright-orange and musk-weather. Pumpkin pie and ginger cookies, ground whole green tea leaves untouched by snowy sugars. I want the mossy drip and drizzle of what passes for winter, here on the wrong side of the world. I want the rubber scent of rain boots, the taste of forgetting, the joy of scattering crystal drops from copper curls.
I want New Orleans in October, but I will settle for graveyard dust and marigold petals, cigarette smoke and thick rum that is as old as I am, black lace stockings and a fistful of candy corn.
