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The smell of wet leaves
stored in my mind,
stretches back to the first time I realized
that the seasons keep going,
each tripping over the other like rushing kids to the door
who's there? what's going on?
the little things I've stored away in my mind
about falling leaves and the hushing of snow
the strange pictures that float through my mind
of tulips
pushing through it all
squirrels knowing, but not wanting to accept
enjoying packing larders
an image frozen--of gray and erect bodies of
furry hurry
oh these
little wisps
of ideas.
Like steam off the pavement in the summer
that passes so clearly from seen
to nothing.
Gone to dance with clouds and bright sun.
displaced worms and dirty, hot feet
oh, and--the hour the summer melts the world gold.
the blue hour in winter,
when the snow holds everything quiet
and sound, even the loudest melodies
mute for the blueing of the world
seasons are stored in my mind:
inevitable, predictable
harsh and sweet
necessary, lovely
smelling, touching, tasting, wondering.
but often leaving
my mind holding
onto the previous season
slow, lazy, snowflakes
wet, curling leaves
the push of tulips
the steamy pavement.
close your eyes and breathe in the season.