Those thin lines between worlds, they hang like a veil, like a heavy gravitational pull. No borders between skin and air. Winds that wrap around trees like silk, turning branches and leaves to watercolors, ebbing and flowing.
A midnight veil, dividing day and night, as summer melts into autumn. Metallic air tasting like copper, brass, gold hanging under the silver moon, the platinum stars.
The midnight geese are calling, their trumpets echo, a symphonic rustling of leaves somersaulting, chasing time in the streets.
The cool air of dusk and dark enters through the window, like tendrils, it crawls along my neck and down my arms. It tells stories of migration, of black feathers meeting black sky, of synchronous wings beating, of spirits riding currents, joining the flock in unison, the trumpeters sing, “I’m coming home, I’m coming home”
To lay their heads down, the lost souls that touch my face, that take refuge in my heart, that settle themselves in the empty space of my bed. Let sleeping spirits lie, stretch their mouths and memories.
No borders between worlds, surrendered to the crevices between. The midnight geese, they call my name. The wild wind, she whispers…
Come home. Like the ghosts that guard the night, the ones who change the clocks and paint the seasons. When the dark arts coincide. Come through my window. Spin your worldly tales.
Where shadows drown the sidewalks and spirits thick like fog can walk among us, enter through us.
Autumnal migrations. You are coming home, to your insides, to your bones and breath. To a softer time of year where life gives way to death. Leaves falling at your feet. You are coming home.