I wake in the crisp afternoon of late September, the woods of aspens have changed from green to yellow and fluttering before they fall to cover the ground, to cover me, alone on a woolen plaid blanket damp from the earth, damp from our sweat. I can breathe it in - the damp and sweat, and earth and wool like a Zen meditation.
I can smell the woods, laced with the depth of loam and peat – smoke from distant fireplaces. Air smacks of impending drizzles. I turn my head and your perfume is there where you curled in my arm, head cradled in the crook of my shoulder as my hand draped the curve of your hip. Everything of worth comes from the shape of a woman, everything learns its curve from the shape of a breast, the arch of an eyebrow, the slow ascent and descent from hip to ankle. You tasted like salt and the drip of lake water that coursed down between your breasts to tangle in your fur. I can breathe in the leftovers of you, now you are gone.
I can smooth the dew on my chest hair with my hand and all our passion is on my palm. I can wipe it over my face and whiskers you complained so much about, so I can carry it with me when I finally get up and stand on bare feet and feel the breeze and mist on my body. I feel the setting of the sun on my back still providing a sense of warmth while my front is chilled and goose bumps rise on my legs and arms. I can turn one way and then another taking in both the last vestiges of summer and the first views of fall. I can breathe in both birth and death at the same time.
I reach down for a shirt, rumpled and discarded an hour ago. I find socks and pants strewn about this picnic of passion, mine, except for a small thong of emerald green and I know you have left in a hurry, commando style. I pocket them, but first breathe you deep in my lungs, like strawberries and cream on a hot summer day.
I am connected to you by the look we shared, the laughter we shared, the cup of hands we shared, the steps together we shared. But the scent of you, the petrichor of you, in the fall of the year amidst the trickle of aspen leaves – yellow and fresh – the breath of you is mine and I am grateful you have left a bit behind for me to remember.