Letters to Luthien

Letters to My Future Bride

When the Autumn Night Beckons

“Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.”

Dear Darling,

Something’s wrong.

Don’t worry, I don’t know what it is, and if I don’t know then it can’t be all that bad, can it?

I’ve been doing fine, still lighting fires here and putting them out there, but tonight, instead of studying or working I want to sigh and cry and escape.

There’s too many people around, I can hear them out the window, the same window through which the night wind enters to ruffle the shades.  But they’re all in their own worlds. They deaden their senses with liquor and tobacco and television, huddling in their houses, slumped on their couch with the shades drawn and the lights off. I can see the glow of their TVs through nearly every window. Nights like this were meant for more! Can’t they see that?

So I put aside my books for the evening and hunt for the scenes and songs and words that make me cry. I want to leave the whole world behind and, if I have to be lonely, at least do it alone.

I blame that infernal autumn night wind again. There’s something about it that wants filling, without revealing what. This is how some people get fat…they want filling, and food is all they know to consume, a self-destructive quest to be filled.

Blasted wind, it wakens and stirs, it’s wistfully, miserably filling and unfulfilling, fueling a hunger for the unknown. It’s a cruel night that caresses your face and beckons you escape, when there’s nowhere to escape to. It’s the wind of change, there’s no doubt about that. It’s the voice of authority, drawing one chapter to a close and ushering in a new one.

This is where you have to take away my phone or my internet, to keep from getting distracted, or to withhold the temptation driven by loneliness to retrace the vain hopes of connection from the past.

I can barely hear the stars through all this noise and light pollution, but it helps to sit out under them for a while, hunching behind a meager fence line to stave off the glare of porch and street lights.

We’ll go camping under these stars one day, Darling. The same stars that hold our gaze now will be the backdrop for some wonderful memories to come. And when the wild night wind rustles through our windows and stirs our hearts and our wanderlust, we’ll be able to chase it to our favorite spot, some deserted back pasture or creek side, wherever it will be. We can be guiltless and liberated, frisky and frolicsome. I hope you can cling to these future hopes as much as I, and that they bring you as much comfort.

Love me, my dear, because here in this meager room with these meager words, I am loving you.

Yours ever,

September 29, 2013 Posted by | Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Autumn Is Not As It Used To Be


“Through all the weary, hot midsummer time,
My heart has struggled with its awful grief.
And I have waited for these autumn days,
Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief.
For I remembered how I loved them once,
When all my life was full of melody.
And I have looked and longed for their return,
Nor thought but they would seem the same, to me.

The fiery summer burned itself away,
And from the hills, the golden autumn time
Looks down and smiles. The fields are tinged with brown —
The birds are talking of another clime.
The forest trees are dyed in gorgeous hues,
And weary ones have sought an earthy tomb.
But still the pain tugs fiercely at my heart —
And still my life is wrapped in awful gloom.

The winds I thought would cool my fevered brow,
Are bleak, and dreary; and they bear no balm.
The sounds I thought would soothe my throbbing brain,
Are grating discords; and they can not calm
This inward tempest. Still it rages on.
My soul is tost upon a troubled sea,
I find no pleasure in the olden joys —
The autumn is not as it used to be.”

– Ella Wheeler Wilcox, “An Autumn Reverie”

September 29, 2013 Posted by | Loneliness, Poems | , , , , , | Leave a comment