I have been in the woods long enough to speak the language of rebirth. every autumn, a doorway of colours, the beauty of death on the body of a fallen leaf— the heroism of baobabs and mahoganies, of seasons holding storms together from ravaging our suburb. a native knows of pristine sands, like the one I built my garden with, or the ones my daughters build their sand castles with. a stranger loves the synonym of trees and shrubs on our skins— we rhyme with our forests in seasons like this— the furs of wild cats, the caramel of our bee honeys— medicinal and sweet, like the drip of the woman after my heart— my daughters relished the motherhood on her areolas as babies, or of the nescafé she creams with her eyes like a full moon, or of the chocolate in my tongue from her tongue, or of my favorite jacket made of fine leather— the musketeer, or of her favorite song by Beyoncé. for a strand of nature that is green was once brown, I bask in patience at the swamp of brown waters when I smell autumns in the dryness of arid lands. I haven’t called this woman brown sugar for no reason.