Nowadays, I long to be near the sea, yet I remain hidden from the afternoon light. The stillness is unsettling, like a tree bent by the weight of sadness. The staggering wanderer within me walks along pavements in scuffed rain boots and an umbrella tucked under my arm. These are estranged encounters of October, of brewed words once forgotten, only to be remembered while sipping a penchant cup of jasmine tea.

The stars seem duller, pale almost; fingertips fumble for another hand to hold. Until then, my nights are devoted to silent sewings, tussled bedsheets, and a nest of twigs and words.

Tomorrow begins the harvest of spoken words; to be tenderly woven as a garland adorned in orange berry pips and delicate lace. I must remember to choose with care, for words easily vanish. October crept between yellowed pages; I suppose this was a warning to tread cautiously. Old wounds have yet to heal, there is still time to pluck mullein leaves to soothe the cuts on my knees and the sores of a riven heart.

There is no language for the shadows across pavements; we stumble to find bearings like loose change lost in pockets. Wayside glimpses from the stars caught my breath, something I have only read about in books; I have yet to learn what beauty is, or how to heal old wounds. The night is thickly sweet with scents of peppermint sprigs, basil leaves, the truth of hands, and seasons where cherry blossoms fall.