The season has broken, and with it the towering sunflowers, now bent over and stumbling, the ground made too soft to support their gloriousness by a stretch of early fall rain. In thicket, in hedgerow, in humble forgotten orchard places, the leaves have broken, too, and shuddering into their last mourning call, whisper sweet tones of barely golden. We would cry for the end of Summer, if Fall weren’t so beautiful, and every mushroom speaks of happiness to come, as it rises from the moldering underfoot.The little things about this place, my home, which drive me mad with longing - the dusty collection of toll booth lights against a purple blue cloudless Summer evening. The land is in a sense poisoned against my return through crowding out the safe places of my childhood into ever-increasing patches of humid hurry and angered entitlement. What would I write to you, person of my past, who once wandered these scenes with itching toes, if ever I could reach you? Remember just to forgive yourself the things that were not meant to happen, and that at no point did you succumb, tired though you may have been, in the fighting. Sunsets were your home, and rain a reminder of the falling love you’ve given, which should always be given and never divided. Really, your feelings never changed, only ripened, and became your closest friends.
The scraps of an old life, folded roughly into crinkled piles, still smelling of places departed. I play with them as I play with crayons sometimes, mainly just looking at them; the nostalgia of yellow and green, the comfort of purple and blue, the tender repulsion of oranges and reds. I’m waiting for a chance to use them, waiting for the outburst so remarkable only the hard whack of colored wax can express it, waiting to paint my life with obviousness, with boldness and sincerity.
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