Of Seasons and Fleeting

The day left brown oak leaves littered across the orange brickwork like a dried and forgotten fire. Their shadows twisted and turned as they flirted with the lamplight and teased my tongue with longings of pumpkin, nutmeg, and the slightest hint of cinnamon. Then the rain fell and they curled up to reach it, the last grasp of an autumn laid dying. For that is fall, life going out in a blaze of glory through coffee steam and a lightly-frosted window.

My children are warm, and their bellies full. That is more than many may claim, but more often than naught it does not seem enough. We are spoiled by billboards and jingles. We want in waves, and going without turns desire as barren as winter. The tide swallows our footprints and we spend our lives walking in sand-washed circles.

Spring is a song I heard today. I danced despite myself and even hummed a few bars when only a memory lingered. It had a good beat and was as catchy as a firefly. I keep it in a jar in the back of my mind.

I know a man that lives his life in nothing but happiness. He has had one wife, eleven children, and a guitar shaped like the midday sun that twangs in echoes from every direction. He shines like summer on a postcard.

A sentiment of seasons rolls through me for but a moment, and then dreams become distorted by so much reality. The threat is this, all would blur into constant motion if not for the things we hitch ourselves to. For instance, when I tuck my children into their beds my kisses are many and each a soft anchor. They may float like parade balloons in the night, but they are safe from wind and fears. I am tethered tightly upon the curves of their smile, and I have no intention of ever letting go.

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