Autumn lay somewhere dying. Probably under a pile of leaves. Confetti only trees can fashion. And toss on the ground.
It becomes a ballroom floor when the full moon rises. Glitters like a mirror ball. We attend the dance wearing cast-off dresses. Stained. Moth-eaten. You do not object when I waltz with strangers. Or kiss them. Even as chaperoning trees shake their branches.
Occasionally I take someone home. Fuck. Make up stories about old scars. Eat oranges. Play chess by the fireside. Paint while my guest sleeps. Wait for dawn.
As usual we are waiting for something. The sky, snow. And I, an exit.
I twiddle my thumbs. She balls up her clouds.
One at a time. Like tissues.
Birds do our whistling for us. Mostly because watching makes them uncomfortable.
Someone will go to sleep disappointed.
Dawn stands outside my bedroom window.
I cannot decide if I should feel flattered or intruded upon by these visits.
No words are ever spoken.
I watch the striptease.
Go back to sleep.
Dawn wore the same mauve light yesterday.
It slides over her body like silk. Catches on the branches of trees as they grope her. Some find contentment just by tossing leaves at her feet.
An odd currency.