time thief

I woke with creaking knees, and downward facing mood. My lawn has apple-pox; spotted with the wounded and bruised I never got around to picking. A musty smell haunts me from some hidden crawl space; mice are looking for housemates and rumor has it I have toast crumbs and empty mason jars.

I have rooms full of warted gourds, and branches bent with orange berries, and tiny pumpkins and pinecones all gathered and captured in vases and bowls like acorns stuffed in a panicked cheek. I feel the need to light scented candles that smell like pie, and stick cloves into something, as if all of this will distract me from this sadness I woke with, let loose by the first scent of wood smoke in the air. What is it I am yearning for? What is this ache?

I woke with a fear of fall, of falling, of falling backward into a Norman Rockwell haze; into a cavernous wish for days gone by. I remind myself that nostalgia is a thief of time and a bit of a liar, too. The deer think the fallen apples are just where they need to be.