Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.
How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.
~ Katherine Mansfield
The leaves are turning and mornings bite, a nip sharp enough to make me take a breath of it inside and convince me that a coat has a place in my future. Every year I wish summer would endure and every year those wishes get whooshed away with the dervishes of dust and leaves that spin eastward down my street. The windows get closed at night and there’s pumpkins to be carved.
This year is different, though: it’s my first samhain, be gentle with me.
Prime me with camomile tea.
Finish me with mulled wine.