I'm Having An AffairI'm having an affair with the forest, this wild weather, in the sunny autumn clearing, the leaves are rushing past an empty park bench in a hurry, my trenchcoat caught up, blown wide open like a fall flower bloom, bold and happy, but these moods swing and leave the leaves stewn on asphalt and puddly, this park in tears.
These affairs of the heart are tumultuous, full of operatic rise and fall. The leaves are being wrenched off the fingers of summer branches bleeding splashes of yellow, and crimson shock and orange smoky silk scarf shades, mine tied tight around my blond hair, still can't keep the emotional howling Fall wind out of my ears.
You were any man I'd see, in Central Park or Jardins de Luxembourgh, newspaper tucked up under your arm, long straight legs scissoring to the end of the park, turning your gaze suddenly towards me, only to get slapped by a sassy, impertinent wind. I was breezing by in the other direction, but wished I could have said, Jibe Ho! and wheeled my little ship around and sailed your way, make a mooring with you in a cafe with coffee and maybe later fall under sheets, under rain on the roof, look up at the panes, look over at you. Five o'clock shadow, I like you sir. Until I hear that wind again. That wild wind inviting me out to play.
Vous Voyez Monsieur, I'm afraid I like you less than the leaves. If I rose from your bed, I'd wrapped fast in a wrapper, make it a shimmer of faded oaks and red maples, adorned with acorns, a fringe of sycamore. They do a far more passionate dance, these leaves. They lure me, to love me, to ultimately leave me. I won't completely forget you, sir. I'll pause again in the park after they've had their windy way with me and wonder what you look like ... in the morning shaving. Should have stayed for that. But sorry, they look better, fresh from morning rain, they start blowing up the boulevard, bewitchingly. I tear after them.