Autumn’s Spell

Today is one of those beautiful, fall SoFlo days that causes me to spout poetry like October by Frost or To Autumn by Keats. Every since I was a small girl, I was enthralled by the autumn sea breezes turned windy that mussed my hair and toyed with my dress’s hem.

As an adult, when I see the wind blustering through the arecas, the first thought skipping through my mind is whether or not my allergies are going to attack my sinuses and mess with my lungs. But then, memory, that all important muse, prods me into romanticizing fall like I did when I was a child and I am under autumn’s spell once more (armed with Clarinex).

So I can relive those milkweed moments from years ago when I spotted the pods opening and the tiny seedlings with fluff rising like nature’s balloons into the air. I can celebrate the first periwinkle morning glory that graces the fence. I can feel connected to that little blonde haired girl obsessed with growing things, stooping down to get a closer view of the green acorns, rubbing sage between her fingers and smelling it’s savory perfume–I can just be.


I owe it all to my ex. I had no idea when he left that I would end up sharing my bed with so many men. Granted, it’s a king size bed (everyone should have a king size bed) so there’s plenty of room. Furthermore, it’s a cloud of pillow top softness so all the more comfy. Hence, numerous visitors, day and night.

The night-time visitors are usually the most memorable. Samuel Clemens has been camped out for weeks now and it’s been a struggle to make room for others. For the last three years or so, I’ve had a string of intimate affairs:  Langston Hughes, Bradbury (a frequent guest), Frost, Longfellow, Sherman Alexie, George Orwell, Browning, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hawthorne, Shakespeare, Frederick Douglass, Junot Diaz, Frank Abate, William Blake, M. L. King Jr., C. L. R. James, José Martí and, yes, even Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman. Some controversial characters have surfaced as well such as Karl Marx, Nietzsche, Freud and Rousseau.

I don’t discriminate much. In fact, I am passionately opposed to censorship. Therefore, I will continue to have an open door policy. If some people judge me because of my taste in men authors and slap a scarlet “A” on my forehead, so what.

Like Twain’s famous protagonist states, “You’ll say it’s dirty low-down business; but what if it is?” And I’ll continue to enjoy every second of it.