Winter. The smell of stillness, the taste of cold, the long quiet nights. Storms stalking the skies, shrouds of mist and gray. Trees rustle and sway, then brace for the trim — layers of snow and ice balanced on black branches. And green. Ever, ever green. Until nothing but white. Trees, sky, ground. Blankets of snow, blankets of wool and down. Tea. Firelight. Soft music. A pot of soup waiting for anyone who comes by.
Spring. An eye opening. An arm stretching. Then a leg. A shoulder. Hips sway. Birds sing. Green gossamer fronds emerge from the mud and grit and pine needles and patches of snow. And the grass grows and the deers graze and the neighbors mow and the smells. All the smells blooming in the air. All things fresh and clean and vibrating with purpose.
Summer. Light draws a slow arc. Time to plant, time to grow, time to water and weed and watch a bud, a blossom, a bee, a branch reaching up and out and over a pond. Leaves brush the water. Swollows and swifts arch and dive. And each with its own sound — a warble a cry and laughter. Schools out. Children free. Bikes pools scateboards. Climb a tree. Stair at clouds. Find the zebra, the cupid, the country of Japan floating in the sky.
Autumn, words fall, gracefully land on the ground. Snapshots and memories layered with leaves and duff. The rough stuff of the season. The dregs of the harvest. The last apples, the last grapes the last of the persimmons dangling in the dying light. Orange globes, captured sunlight, reflecting the harvesting moon.
Naseem Rakha 8/21/24
