After the long summer vacation, there was a boy called Davies, a girl called Sophie and an adolescent love letter in bloom.

In the spring before, the notebook of Davies' held the pre-drafted plans of his summer break. Filled with all the things that he would do, the games he would play with friends, the camping trips with his fishing-loving father.

But, what he looked forward for the most included the next door neighbors, the Barkley's. More precisely, the 16 year old Sophie Barkley who spent more time outside, in the front yard than in her room, contrary to most teenagers of her age.

They had become friends, in the usual way of neighboring kids befriending each other. But the inexplicable reasons of liking her and at some extent loving her were left unexplained.

And, Davies, in his peculiar way of thinking, wanted to break down the causes of this fondness and he would. If the Scarlet fever didn't get to him first.

Here's the point in the story where the love letter comes into play.

And if there was a third eye, it would see a weak boy, wrapped in a long coat and scarf to hide his identity, limping to the Barkley's yard wall and lurching back by the dawn's light.

She found the letter in the morning, exactly as planned.

The tremor filled handwriting said,

"Dear Sophie,

As you might know, the Scarlet fever is the reason that I'm locked in my room for autumn. I wish it didn't happen because I promised to get you those W.H. Auden's poetry books that the library didn't have.

I know how much you love poetry, even though you don't tell people about it. I saw you walking out to the brick wall with your poetry books, pencils and notebook, every morning.

Strolling in the autumn winds that brought the yellow-orange leaves, the smell of the woods and the sound of poetry.

I liked how you always waved at my window. Sorry if mum didn't let you see me. It's because of the fever.

As much as I'm dying to talk to you, I'd still stay away before my fever's gone.

I don't want you to suffer like me. It would be more difficult for you then because you won't be able to go outside, walk with me in the park and enjoy the Autumn America.

Your smiles, waves, sent books and baked cookies are things that made this home-arrest bearable.

And for you, I won't break my promise and see you being mad at me.

So, here's those W. H. Auden books that you talked about.

I love to see you happy.

I'd love it if you loved me too.

I'd love you even if you don't.

In the immortal words of Auden, "If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me."

Locked in the four walls and forced to stare out of the window, mother nature got to me and squeezed some poetry out of my soul.

I know I'm no Auden.

Don't hate me too much for the poem.

Sincerely,

Davies."

The Autumn Inquiries

Send me the autumn leaves,

Carved in the wings of a butterfly.

Send me the scent of the wind.

And the picture of a glossy afternoon sky.

Send me the colors of mother nature.

Those yellow, orange shades that will kiss my soul calm.

The golden glaze of the sun in the trees,

That will bathe me in till I am warm.

Send me the songs of the Montgomery,

He sings only of what he knows.

Send me the sting of the stars,

Wherever they may linger, wherever they may go.

At last, darling.

Shower me with all the beauties that I seek,

All the pieces of art.

But I would wish for none of them at all,

If you send me your love.                      

FIN