there is something mocking about the cracking of winter's ice and the sudden burst of light that comes with the waking season. Something dispiriting about the clearing of the frost-layered earth and silvery trees, the parting of the snowflake-sky and wintry breeze. As if the earth's moved on and left me behind, still staggering in snowstorms of yesterdays, while she clears away the silver mists of the winter and makes lush jungles of her prairies again; asters and lilies rooting up from her crevices, flush, fresh leaf buds growing on the once bare and brittle branches of the once dead trees.
And there comes the summer of sun, endless weeks of golden light and warmth stepping forth from Birth. The same sun that sent new green leaves bursting from blackened buds now turn the wands of knee high grasses golden. Yet, she bores down on me hotter and harder than before, as if mocking me of the little light left inside of me, a striking difference to the infinite beams she holds–she is. A striking difference to the fresh earth and cloudless, brightened blue sky... But Fall comes forth and gives a soft knock, delicately setting the earth in graceful, warm fires, and there are those moments of wholeness at the sight of the grace in her crispness, the magnificence of her withering. As if the earth grew solemn from my distress and thought it necessary to reveal the beauty in the struggle; murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson, maple trees turning vividly in hues of muted yellow and reds softly singing words of comfort in september winds—nature's violently hued calling before the white silence of the winter...Nothing could surpass the warmth of autumn's touch, the feeling of comfort and belonging in her fiery embrace.
Yet, like all other things cherished, the moment of her parting arrives as swiftly as the streams running clear in the summer woods; within a passing of the wind, the last leaves are called off their branches, and the november winds give their last dance. And I am overwhelmed by a longing for her presence the moment the silvery deadness of the winter comes to leave the earth bare.
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anemoia | a prose collection
Poetry"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life. And not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived." anemoia - nostalgia for a time never known. a time never experienced, but desperately...
