“Porch Swing in a Fall Afternoon” by Autumn Moss

The seasons changing for the colder always brings a lump to my throat and a tightness to my lungs. I feel the collagen in my skin weakening in the frigid breeze. The relieved exhale blowing through the trees gently takes the hand of each leaf it passes. The vibrant hues so warm they burn against the layers of gray clouds stretching their tired muscles in every direction coating the sky.

We’re rocking on a porch swing slowly and fluidly. The hardwood seat comfortably bathed in body heat. My mug of hot crimson tea is spiced so potently that the spoonfuls of honey so generous they were bursting off the teaspoon are just a subtle note in each sip. My hands cling around the oversized mug, siphoning off warmth as steam voraciously plumes from the surface into my nostrils, wrapping itself against my eyelids shut tight against the vapor. The humidity rises clouding his glasses opaque.  He has hot chocolate sweetened with agave and spiced with smoked chili powder, cloves, and cinnamon. I had let it simmer on the stove extra long, stirring slowly with his arms around my waist, thickening it into almost a syrup that coats his tongue and all the way down his throat letting the spice linger and build upon itself as he finishes the cup. We smell the robust flavor of the invigorating drinks in each other’s exhales, visible in the autumn air.

The swing’s old but sturdy springs creak soft and low, harmonizing with the breathy twinkle of a neighbor’s collection of delicate stained glass windchimes lazily twirling themselves around. I lean my head back and listen to the grand chorus between nature and weather that engulfs us, man made wonders of surround sound pipe organs built into multi-story cathedrals dwarfed in comparison. Tree branches rustle and whisper, passing down secrets between each other in a wonderfully noisy game of telephone.

I’m looking into the flecks of green and gold in his light brown eyes, feeling like I’m sitting in front of crackling mossy logs in a dirt pit, tasting the rich flavor of caramelized sugar on freshly roasted marshmallows, still bubbling but cooled enough by the late afternoon air to press into your tongue. I’m deeply warmed.

The sun starts to fall casting a brilliant glow on his cheeks and marigold brushed parted lips, igniting his eyes as I pull my handmade thick flannel quilt up to our nestled-close shoulders. Golden hour of the gods calms the air and the sky bursts with flavors of bubble gum, ube, fresh pumpkin, and blood oranges. Saturation crescendos and I ache in my chest. The sunset through the black silhouettes of trees looks like a forest fire.