I wish I lived in a forest at the beginning of autumn. Constantly. A quaint house made of stone, with a chimney spouting smoke. Always. My bedroom would be sage green; fresh herbs sprouting on the window sill. The subtle scent of basil, oregano, and rosemary. Tiny textured vases; deep rich soil...the look of coffee grounds. I'd have a wall of books: rows of encyclopedias, science and philosophy, dreams and spells. Thumbed through, but not worn. Some read, some halfway understood; only a handful put into practice.
In the mornings, the sun would filter in through leaves and needles. Arousing and quiet. Shadows cast on milk-white skin. I can imagine rising, slowly, effortlessly. Bathing in a porcelain tub, lions feet delicately poised on tile, maybe linoleum, hopefully wood. The slow drip of fresh water. The song of a hundred birds.
Footprints puttering down the hall. The aroma of fresh bacon, the sizzling of eggs. His back turned away from me, silent, but both of us aware of the knowledge that we are content. Happy and full. He wears no shirt, no shoes, no mask of any kind. Only the cast iron calm of honesty. We share a smile the way friends share a hug. I watch my coffee steam. I watch his hands butter toast, methodically, gracefully. I can imagine the delicate tink of silverware on china. The surge of potential and hope. The validity of matter and breath. Creation echoing in a finely tuned ear. An imagined ear. A state of being.
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