Autumn On My Mind...

Give me a thick layer of dark clouds and a crisp breeze;
Give me a breeze that brings pink to my cheeks.
Give me sweater weather with a scarf;
Give me a scarf and gloves, matching set.
Give me a warm mug of apple cider;
Give me apple cider by the fire.
Give me autumn.
Give me the trees' rustle of fire-flavored leaves;
Give me the leaves that crunch beneath my feet.
Give me the taste, the smell, of pumpkin;
Give me the pumpkins, smiling in rows.
Give me the drizzle that promises snow;
Give me snow that tastes like comfy cold.
Give me autumn.

These are the words in my heart right now.  Mom told me they had a fire in the fireplace last night.  Friends on facebook are sporting those fall clothes I love so much: sweaters, hats, gloves, scarves, jackets... and in their hands are steaming cups of apple cider and pumpkin lattes.  Somewhere in the north leaves are changing to beautiful, vibrant colors.  Soon, there will be pumpkin pie, turkey, and snowfall.

Here, the leaves are getting... dead.  There is now a cool breeze as relief from the still-suppressing heat.  Halloween decorations deck everyone's halls, but a pumpkin left outside in these conditions turns moldy all too quickly.

This is my home now, but I'm not ready to give up my dreams of autumn.  I just love it and miss it too much.  Florida, that is my one complaint.  Could you please have a real autumn?  I'll buy you a caramel apple cider and a pumpkin muffin, I promise. :)

All a Girl Could Ask of a Boy...

I am a true lover of literature.  It often affects me to the core, and such is the case today.  In my seemingly unending studies as I write my own curriculum for my high school English classes, I uncovered this gem of a poem by W.B. Yeats:

When You are Old


When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I actually teared up as I read this.  It's amazing how just the right combination of words can evoke such feeling.  I would love to truly teach my students this-- to help them see that it's not so much the iambic pentameter or rhyme that makes a poem a poem, but the beautiful, thoughtful combination of words.

It's a terribly bittersweet poem, because the writer has always loved this woman, from her youth to her old age, but she has rejected him and now regrets it in her old age; she is alone.  He has watched others profess their love for her, though they didn't really love her.  I think the most beautiful sentence is:

"But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,/And loved the sorrows of your changing face." 

I mean, that's all a girl can ever really ask of a boy, isn't it?

The City in My Soul

I walked past the passersby coming off the train, whipping around them like an intrically designed pinball game. The true Chicagoan doesn't walk; the true Chicagoan weaves. Earbuds in ears, the humming of the city provides a white-noise backdrop to the soundtrack I'm creating.

It's cold. I set my face against it and grit my teeth, waiting for that heating vent I know is coming... and there it is. A bit of warmth, just enough for me to muster energy to hop up the stairs of the rickety peeling painted El platform. Clinking change into the machine-- beep, beep-- and now I'm ready to be whisked off to my destination in that steel bullet that whines and roars around the buildings tall and statuesque.

Past the stops I know so well, past new buildings that are unfamiliar, past the river waiting to be dyed green, past the people with whom I share a deep kinship of home, I make it to my stop, then walk-- no, weave-- through the rain and past the people, up and down the streets that are the heart of the city, the heart of the country, the heart of me.

Gloves, hat, jacket, warmth, style. Carmel apple cider in hand, the cold blasts my face in this, the Windy City. The rhythm of my feet against the pavement match beat for beat my earbuds and heart, and there is a connection between me and my city which cannot and will not ever be denied.

You can take the girl out of the city... but you'll never, ever take the city out of the girl.

I think this was a poem I wrote for my former roommate's graduation a few years ago. I chickened out though, I think, and painted her something instead. But when I looked over this poem just last week, I liked it. I thought I'd share it with you. It seems harsh, but the title is "My Prayer," and sometimes we have to pray the hard things for our loved ones-- for the purpose of holiness.

"My Prayer"

When you walk across the chasm
Separating student from teacher
Clutching simple parchment
Symbolizing wisdom
May you have humility enough
To know the limitations
Of your wisdom
And the inadequacy
Of your knowledge.

When you walk down the future aisle
Separating single from oneness
Clutching fragrant flowers
Symbolizing unity
May you have unchanging love enough
To know the divisiveness
Of your strong mind
And the vast impurity
Of your own heart.

When you walk hand-in-hand with young ones
Separating youthful from aged
Clutching tiny fingers
Symbolizing blind trust
May you have perfect patience enough
To know the depth of true need
Of your own self
And the immaturity
Of your person.

When you walk towards the lighted gulf
Separating living from dying
Clutching aging life breath
Symbolizing struggle
May you have faithful belief enough
To know the black filthiness
Of your dark sins
And the salvation by grace
Of your own soul.