Frills, gills, and fanciful shoes with ribbons and rabbit fur. Imagine a little girl in a sweater and striped tights entering an echoing opening in a swamp, not yet frozen in the cool. The young trunks of a deciduous forest surround her. She carries in her hand a slight twig. The mud belches as she lifts each foot from the ground. Upcoming autumn themes take us back to the stolen child of Yeats' tragic prose who was drawn away by the fairies. Saved. But also taken from the weeping of the outside world.
Autumn is delicate and chordate with negligible shirts that wrap like gills around shoulders. Simple shining hair, close to the head or wrapped courtly. Each action has small patches of growth, but not much, and not often, its meager affect bright and sounding as a firefly. Let that suffice and steal yourself back to the forest. The cool breezes expel the hot constant worries that take us away. "Where dips the rocky highland." Where the swamp freezes over. "While the world is full of trouble and anxious in its sleep." The frost may wake us.
A cervine mammal is startled and jumps into the nebulous temple of trees. We have entered a season bearing the necessity to gather. There will be cooling of colors to soothe the skin. We have been fighting too long. Go for the hills, take counsel from mountains, wrap yourself in worn-out silver. Wrap yourself in blues and green. We are in an ocean. We are in a swamp. Beside a pond. The orb of quietness that wavers blue before you as you look towards water has a wisdom.