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October 14th, 2003:

Demeter Weeps

The air is crisp and clean: cold enough to bite uncovered arms and warm enough to ignore them. Everything is changing. Its losses, expected; its renewal, well-known. The trees stop growing and consider shedding their leaves. The rivers run lower and thinner, their sources exhausted and too cold to continue. The birds begin preparations to fly to other parts of the world.

The face of the earth changes with each revolution, as does yours, each half growing less like the other with lines of wisdom and experience. I expect it, and I revel in its surprise.

Like the trees and rivers and birds, I, too, prepare for loss, for change, for renewal. It’s natural. It’s within me. It happens before I realize it is happening and when it does, I have a thirst for it: for something different.

I dream of walking along streets packed with unknown faces bordered by scarves that rest on jackets covering skimpy summer clothing. I wish for the northern winds at my face and that familiar faint numbness on my cheeks brushed by chapped lips and visible breath to remind me that they are there. I long for cricket-less nights when you swear you can hear the crackling footsteps of people half-way around the world.

The soil waits for the warmth of the leaves it nourishes as I desire the warmth of a shared blanket, hiding secrets known only to those that it covers.