Coffee and orange,
paint peel wood, sun-bleached alleyways.
Ivy the green of seasons.
There's a feeling I haven't been able to capture [let alone designate] since I first felt it,
fourteen years ago
(until now)
It's fall in Columbus, in the Victorian Village. That's it. It's a numinous and tangible nostalgia in-the-making,
a dark wood kitchen table,
day trips with dad to the park by the river,
dandelion greens and onion grass
hot chocolate and an under-appreciated sip of coffee,
digging in the dirt,
fallen colorful leaves at the locks
finding treasure in the ground, on the ground, everywhere we go.
cool sunshine day nature foragers.
I can even remember when mom came, too.
it's a feeling I don't want to leave because it smells like something more, now
that I'm older
and can hear it through radiohead and smell it in coffee, and the way of the neat-looking men who want something to do with both.
I'm always the most here just before I leave.
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