Hearing Blue

Fall is my favorite season. You wake up one morning, and suddenly, all the world is golden. I like to sit outside and watch the sky, especially sunrise. What’s so strange about that? The cold sunrise coming up behind the trees is hauntingly familiar; the orange and gold hues become a symphony written just for me. All the world could hear it if they stopped and listened. They’re just too busy. Children’s laughter, the flushed rubor of cheeks. It all fits. The shiver in your spine, whether from lonely introspection or the still morning, you may never know. Lazy, lidless sunsets, tired and red, disappearing until the stars and moon come out to play in the crisp night air. Shooting stars at 3 AM, filled with tales of breathtaking awe and wonder. How did I come to live in so beautiful a place? Smiling, laughing with friends. Bonfires and smores in an open field. Teaching, hoping to hold on to the fair-weather friendships, before winter comes, and ice replaces the fire in our hearts, before the last crimson-blazoned emblem falls, signaling the turn of a page, and a new day to write. Confusion, yet peace. Lost time and lazy moonlight. Serene, warm-hearted, caring. Warm apple cider and walks down to a pond, where still water reflects trees. Forgiving. Forgetting. Falling out of touch. Saved birthday cards and poems written on the backs or receipts. Deeper meanings, forgotten childhood memories, and a hope for tomorrow. School days, filled with halfhearted shrugs, not from boredom or laziness, but withdrawal and acquiescence to the invasion of another. Sunlight playing on the forest floor. In life, I walk old roads, derelict and long forgotten among the boulders and ferns. Dried carnations and foggy city street lights. Photographs of rain, pouring down. Empty spaces, and dusty corners that need cleaning. Small, unsteady hands, held by wisdom and age. Skeptic sight, where answers are clear. Instant comprehension. Empathy. After school naps in bed, as the sun heats the room to a balmy 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Comfort. Absence. Scent of rain, be it bone-chilling or misty. Certainty. Singing backstage, unaware of how many can hear the words. One, but not alone. Where are you? I wish you were here. A neglected old mirror, cracked, hangs forgotten in the shadows. The peace of solitude. “True love never dies.” Compression of time. The infinite ‘now’. Lost years. Charity for fellowmen. The rhythm and rhyme of the steady flow of time, filled with songs, and words unspoken. So much to say. I’ll wait for another day. Have I said too much, or not enough? But above all else, after the sorrow and fear and doubt fade, there’s only peace. I’d have it no other way. Of such is my life.