Autumn, Interrupted...

There is something magical about autumn light. Pair it with the scents and colors of Fall, and everywhere you look, enchantment abounds. It is hard to stay indoors when Mother Nature wears such brilliant finery ~ I've been off in the wilds absorbing and harvesting beauty.

Yesterday, though, Mother Nature had something of a surprise up her sleeve. It snowed.

It was a full day of wet, heavy flakes and accumulation the likes of which I've never seen in October.

I suspect the trees and plants were also surprised.

Though the birds weren't bothered a bit.

Julius just tucked in, while I got out the boots and gloves.

I am remembering wool and hot chocolate and wishing for more Autumn!

In other news, I've also been busy preparing for my first Tribal dance performance. Back to the regular schedule of photos and fiction soon... 

The Way the Wolf Woos

She knows better

Than to wear silk now,

Though the crimson cap

Is still a tradition.  He

Takes joy in toying with ribbons,

As he nibbles lightly

(The better to taste you)

Down her newly-bared neck.

Spellbound, she wonders

Not about granny (who

Lies abed elsewhere)

But why mother

Failed to tell her 

About any of this.

Claws tickle and tease

With utmost care

As he watches with joy

(The better to see you) her

Goose-bumped response.

And oh, the seduction

Of words! They

Drip from his tongue

Like a basket of goodies

Spilled out on the sheet;

Honey-tinged vowels,

Growls barely stifled, and

Consonants filled

With the promise of heat.

Such sweet delight found

When cheek to cheek,

Or head on chest,

Pulse beat rhythms and

Slick skin echoes,

All (the better to hear) him

Say, “Come closer child,

Let me tell you a story.”

                           _________________________________________________

* Figurine in photo created by Jim Shore

Today's Fairy Tale is Brought to You by the Guy in Overalls

Kudos to the farmer;

An unlikely, field-bound

Fairy Godmother (of sorts)

Who breeds his own brand

Of orange magic. Purveyor

Of a dream-smattered harvest,

Rife with promise

Of imminent transformation

For just a few pennies,

So now neither

Princess nor pauper

Will lose out on a dance

For want of a pumpkin.