Real life snow looks nothing like pristine painting snow…at least not when you live in my neighborhood.
Snow is not an instant glamorizer.
Daily Diversion #193: Snow is Not an Instant Glamorizer
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Tag Archives: Seasons
[Intermezzo] It is Finally Autumn. Ecstatic Autumn!
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.
*
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! In the late afternoon I take my place: curtains open, cup of tea in hand, elbow on windowsill.The sun sets early, beyond the white and dove grey apartment house across the street. The sky is relentlessly pale, diluted even in twilight to a bleak rose or chalky orange: bold colours are too busy dressing the leaves to have anything to spare. It’s their yearly dying wish, one cannot blame them. We have four seasons, they have less. As the masses of crisp leaves move and heave they give off a sound like the cawing of crows. Duncan barks and noses the pane, desperate to be loosed with apocalyptic fervor on these unknown fiends. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind. The sights and smells are fleeting, of this and every other season. Dogs dream of chasing leaves, but will settle for a bone. As for me, I will drink down my tea and write some elegiac words instead.
*
It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.
[Intermezzo] It’s Late September, Come Watch the Seasons Duel
The windows are open, all nine of them, the sashes stretching towards the sky. Street-facing, breeze-embracing. The sun crawls in, climbs in, cascades in: it is everywhere, covering everything, dappling the furniture and the like-coloured dogs with its brightness. The leaves have not dropped; they are green, still supple. Juicy. Plump. They have not yet been riddled with brittleness, or opacity.
Although the calendar suggests otherwise, here, in the North-South corridor, we are caught between seasons. I have lived in this city six years. Autumn comes late, later than I am accustomed to: it is a blip, a blink, a grimace. Normally, autumn is summer, winter is autumn; in September, cool, calm, sunny weather is a hiccough, an anomaly. The days blaze, the nights burn. This year, it is different: thermals in the morning give way to sundresses in the afternoon. The sun is out, but the wind lasts all day: sweaters have already been unpacked, pressed neatly. Smoothed against fading tan skin, pulled tightly against prematurely hunched shoulders.
It is autumn, almost as I know it: cool, windy, exhilarating. Pumpkin patches beckon, the hint of cold-weather spices whirl through the air: cinnamon, nutmeg. Cool temperatures are still an early morning affair, but the time for apple cider and warm soup is near. The cloudy point between seasons-the neither here nor there-is my creative comfort zone: the blood seeping through my pores.
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