Barefoot steps on dirt paths carried me deeper into the wooded area where I was greeted by hordes of people slithering between and grazing one another. Their sun-baked faces turned blue in the starlight, contrasting the drench of sepia and terra cotta that soaked their cotton, burlap and linen garb draped across their bodies. Sipping whiskey before gulping fresh air I stopped noticing where my steps were, and following the brightest lamppost made of moonlight I took my gaze toward the sky. I stopped in my tracks and settled, cross-legged, on the mossy mess of dirt and grass, to draw a line connecting all of the silver specks in the sky. Being under Big Sky meant the changing of gratitude swept in overwhelmingly with the changing of the seasons. The rows of trees were not just trees, but homes for little life, simple life, or companions to the dazed people weaving in and out of them looking for the path. People were not just people under Big Sky either, but friends and gentle faces to stop and hug and wish a happy harvest too. In the short distance beyond the clusters of tent cities was a bon fire whose flames stretched upward, so tall they could have reached over the heads of giants.
In a world of shrivel and wilt
When what we need is seed and sprout
I am neither gather nor grow
I am wither and rot
Here is a very rough poem for which I was hoping to get some thoughts on:
i can tell
when you lean in quite close
that you wear the fragile grin of a child
on your face,
to hide behind gritted armour
has done you well
but you leave a trail of feathers behind
whenever I walk with you,
a hurried look on your face
to peek through fences
and burrow in the mud
excitement for any difference in the day,
what wonderful character that is,
to fill my head with thoughts of
daisies and falling
leaves and perfume
staining the air,
innocent charm that
scoops me up and tosses me
onto a bed of golden leaves
stealing sweet smiles
that become gentler
and soften into tiny baby giggles
as you frame my face with your hands
and lean in quite close
The snow is falling now, and I am happy to walk through the village and let it cover me like a cloak. The flakes tickle my eyelashes and for once I am okay with giggling to myself and smiling, even though passers by can see no reason for a grin or a smirk on such a grey day.
Grey days hardly bother me. I like the stoic feel of the sky, to find the peeking light in other places when the sun is not shining amuses me and brings me much pleasure. And how amplified the little pleasures seem on days when there appears to be no light. The want or need for them is much greater.
I do not want the winter to end. I really do not. I like the way it makes me feel. I love the coziness of coming indoors from a frosty walk and warming my cheeks by the fire. I like how hot chocolate is smooth and how quilts are heavy warmth wrapped around my legs.
I like the woods when it is snowing. How the birch looks behind a sheet of falling snow. How the evergreens become white monuments with green needles poking through. How tracks outline a walkway of otherwise white roads and guide me anyway and every way. And if I find a lonely path, I would hope that my own tracks would not be covered by the ceaseless snowfall, though beautiful and silent, that I might, when I desire, be able to find my way back.