a Poem.

An immense bloody-orange sun lolling above the jagged horizon in early dusk,
Rocky storm-swept lighthouses swinging glowing rays through dense fog,
A colossal steel cross of light topping a broad limestone dome of earth,
Fading parallel lines of steady luminescence guiding in bold pilots,
Red and orange streaks of cloud set brazenly against purple sky and fading sun,
Quietly blinking antennae of red and green jutting from faraway hills on still nights,
Pristine glass lake water shimmering in the new dawn's first light,
Rare and elegant bright-white flowers clinging to a branch,
Softly illuminated by beams of focused, forest-sifted light,
Wide blue mountains looming suddenly, ranging hugely on each side,
Precipitous ledges giving way to wondrous panoramic sketches of terrain,
A Dazzling noon sun partially eclipsed by ponderous towers of billowy white,
Natural, striking and idyllic, these moments steal our words and breath,
organically invoking still moments of unity and contemplation.

There is a slight chance of Autumn in the air.

I'm distressingly undecided in regards to my feelings about the impending Autumn. Surely its already Autumn, but strictly in an official way that really has no relation to when Autumn really starts. When leaves are slowly drained of their green lifeblood, their chlorophyll, and fall to the ground dead and brittle and snap and crackle under your shoes and bike tires and cover sidewalks and fill gutters and blanket the strips of grass between the sidewalk and road and pile up at crosswalks and get wet and bunch together when the comparatively cold rains of early Autumn (compared to Summer rains) bleakly seep down from when you wake up until after you go to sleep and the sky has a wrinkly pallid-gray sheet thrown across it, and you wonder if the Sun minds this billowy impediment and you feel bad for the Sun because its been far too long since you've seen her, and she feels bad for you and its been far too long since she's shined down on you, and so but suddenly you miss Summer and the hot days and cool pond water and far too short canoe trips and extremely lengthy but somehow inexplicably never dull picnics and chilly nights in tree forts (but not as chilly as you are now) and more than anything you miss the Sun and how brightly she shined, and how everyday you could wake up and not even have to check and know that she would be there to shine, waiting patiently outside your window and how now, in the Autumn you can see the Sun but somehow, our swiftly tilting planet has aligned itself in such a way that the Sun in all her Glory is too far to be felt and now she fades away because Winter is coming, and Autumn is so hard to enjoy, nearly impossible to enjoy, even on freakishly nice spring-like days like today, because you know with each passing moment you're drawing closer to Winter and that days grow shorter and much sooner than you expected or had hoped to expect the ground freezes and you start to wear boots everywhere and hats and mittens and the wrinkled gray sheet comes back for good and then snow falls and accumulates and eventually is heaped into great piles by filthy orange trucks that also fling salt and dirt everywhere, and cars without four-wheel drive become obsolete and sit idly and are covered by feet of crushing snow, and little old ladies can't leave their houses, and tired old men trudge up and down their driveways alone with red plastic shovels placing their hands on their aching backs, and so suddenly in the depth of this isolating and depressing winter you happen to be plodding through the snow on an incredibly clear day, seeing typically depressing winter scenarios play out, and all of the sudden you see the Sun and she's shining happily and you realize she's been there all along and really misses you and can't wait until Summer but wants you to be happy in the Autumn and the Winter and that even if you can't see her she is still there and tells you so by winking ever so slightly and you understand why and you are suddenly happy even as the snow falls and cold wind blows and it takes longer then you might expect but eventually the snow melts a bit, then comes back, but then more melts this time and the ice on lakes begins to thaw and the first green thing you see in the ground makes your heart leap and birds fly back North and land on the thawing lakes and you greet them as they distractedly float past you, and small furry creatures pop out of holes in the ground and in trees and search for nuts and seeds, and you see a robin, and before you know it green things are everywhere and the Sun has returned and you greet her, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, because even though its 45 degrees its Spring and you are happy. So, all in all, I think Autumn is a pretty alright season and I welcome it and I will try not to complain about it or Winter too much as long as they promise to eventually yield to Spring and Summer.

A Tiny Slice Of Life.

The sky was clear on an early icy December morning and the moon lounged eerily above the horizon at 7:40 in the morning, a great pale abomination, threatening the sun for celestial superiority.  The air seemed so cold and dry that it might crack and fall to the road if I yelled loudly through it.  Without wind, the air cut at my nostrils and seared by bleary blue eyes as I walked the long uphill block to The Hill.  When the wind blew, it tore easily through My Blue Fleece Jacket, hood up with my mitted hands deep in the pockets and my arms pressed tightly to my small ten year old body.  I was fascinated by how the air could singe my lungs with its crisp chill.  I took a deep breath and coughed immediately.  I reached the intersection of the road I took to school and The Hill, usually criss-crossed with dozens of sledding paths in Winter, it looked patchy and bald, like the face of an old white-haired man that couldn't grow a proper beard.  The snow had come slowly this year and we had had a few late-autumn thaws.  I began the slow ascent of the hill alone, and climbed eagerly, avoiding the great soft drifts, mostly plodding a path through the shallow crunchy crust of snow that was left from the warming days of the previous week.  I reached the summit of The Hill and looked out one way onto the expansive playground, scanning between the swings and The Bug, and found a congregation of kids near The Wall that looked like my friends.  I had time before I had to flow into the flat brick single-story school with a herd of my classmates, sit at My Desk and listen for the bell to start my school day.  I stood and looked, just at the crest of The Hill and peered off down The Hill and beyond.  To my right was Old Jack's Forest, which I had spent the summer learning the mysteries of.  I was no longer afraid to walk through that dense stand of trees, cluttered with odd junk and home to two old eccentric twin brothers.  The Forest climbed up and bordered The Hill on the side closest to my house.  I looked out farther, to the horizon, at the strange ashen moon and wondered why it lingered so long on this crisp calm morning.  As I stared and pondered, I felt the darkly-chilling wind blow over my face and sensed the cold flood deep into my frail chest.  I shivered deeply, and decided to join my friends behind the windbreak of The Wall, the hollow moon's ominous presence lost on me.

Rise.

A small white feather lofts idly into a perfect red-orange sunset, urged on by warm winds, up and up and up it floats into the atmosphere, kissing the sun goodnight and dancing with the northern lights, laying with the moon, adored by the stars, so are we, always rising.  We ebb and flow like the blue sea herself, like all things that are natural and right, but I feel that our tide rises always a shade more than she falls, so soon we will go forth to kiss the sun and lay with the moon, and if the night is right, we can dance among the northern lights too, and the stars will admire how we shine.

I am entertained.

As potential for knowledge emanates

from this institute in its opening stage,

so the multitude of raindrops plummet

on this first shower of the semester.

Sweetly strummed and calmly crooned 

I hum and float along to sweet melodies

her face in my mind's eye, now fading

as I fall asleep to the song we sing together

Calm dark walks on abandoned roads

trees with needles and cool clean sheets

smiles and hugs and up the stairs

perfect evenings on the couch

huge dense forests at every turn

schools with friends and lakes to see

I miss these things, do they miss me ?

Like great works, deep feelings always mean more than they are conscious of saying.

-Camus