It’s a red cardinal in the cold sore of my salted lip, this too cold morning to be sitting here sipping tea…
but we do, I do, anyway, for autumnal ambiance despite frigid fingers and noses.
Shortened days and longer nights transform people into different creatures entirely who live for traditions, cliches and impracticality.
Pumpkin in beer. Internal pine trees and me, a warm blooded-girl in the frosty morning snuggling with a dog to prevent numbness.
As my feet cocoon into her sable fur, my tongue burrows into my cut, tasting the effect of my quiet AMs on my front porch.
Everything is magically worth it from September to the first of the year.
This blood only stirs cravings inside of me for more spice, cardigans, cinnamon in sweet potatoes, boots and seasonal lattes.
And we taste this frigid reality just long enough to make us savor our internal worlds of warm fuzzy socks and spice cakes and the true joys of families & friends, or those friends who are no longer properly labeled the former and much more like the latter.
As the burning embers of the moldy misshapen jack-o-lanterns lead us to edible birds who give us permission to enjoy the melodies of the holiday crescendo, people everywhere understand that life is not about practicality, or schedules or even un-cracked lips.
It is not about thesis statements or definite concluding remarks, it’s not even about the “baby in the manger” in the sunday-school sense.
In every impractical choice and gilded memory tucked inside these four months, lies the mystery of heartbeats beating together, thump for thump. A true rejection of the concrete, and a communal demand to taste the divine, to linger and to love not only each other but also the glory of the world around us.
Cold noses over stale media and cliche traditions over progress and order.
Dreams over goals, and moments on this front porch instead of rotting out to the morning news.