First Chill

I love Chicago when it's finally cold like this. When it truly belongs to the locals who can survive certain things bitter. When there's wet fallen leaves all over the dropping-light of the early evening walk home...

I'm so fascinated by the people - by how they act, and react now- with more barriers between the outside world. More barriers piling up, before the snow piles up where the rain puddles are now growing, and growing murky with yellow leaves….

But I cherish that. I ache for all the layers - the precious layering of different textures. The lace, the wool, the denim and the over-washed cotton, the black on black on grey…. on the black and blackened concrete that sparkles grey like this… 

Not quite white. Not quite warm and sunbaked anymore. Not quite so demanding. 

It makes me desirous. So much more the desirous, of everything to flow and come and burnnn so good…

So please, burn my face with the cold wind. And burn the imprint of a palm into my waist.

The tombs, the wall, on which ochre gets painted by ancient fingers. Tracing a genetic trail of images that one eye found interesting. 

Tracing the line of places that one soul found welcoming….throughout a million seasonal changes. 

I could spend all my days now hibernating and writing - if only there was such an indulgence. If only there were months for paintings, and mornings for tea in bed and watching the schoolchildren pass, and evenings for wine and long talks of life, and nights for all the embraces he readily brings, that I long for. 

If only there was time. For everything. 

If only there was an outline to play between, and break apart, and settle into when the wind was just a bit too rough, even for me. 

But for now it's my season. It's when there's family, and red candles that melt the tablecloths, and champagne, and welcome hugs….and there's delightfully chilly dotted lines to make all around this expansive city of steel. 

It's letting itself be cold again. 

It's letting itself remember its strength, 
And its roots -

That'll soon be captured with delicate pounds of snow.