semi-permanent

4 . turning of the seasons

I asked my father to stop the turning of the seasons.

I fear the achy deadness of fall,

the shorter days of winter,

the anxiety that comes with praying for the first flower

to shoot up through the muddy snow.

I crave the intense anticipation I felt in June,

the feverish delirium of a hot summer night,

a fire glinting in my eyes and yours as we dance,

after summer sweets dripped down my chin like honey.

I can't imagine my salt-heavy hair ever contained beneath a wool hat,

can't imagine ice hardening a lively lake,

can't imagine the soulless sound it will make as it creaks and fractures,

splintering my beating heart and cracking it in two.

But my father told me of the vibrant reds and oranges of autumn trees,

how the light of the sunset bleeds into the leaves,

how bare tree limbs interlace across a cloudless sky,

creating slender silhouettes of delicate dancers.

He told me summer would not be so sweet if it weren't for the

juxtaposition of the colder months,

how May flowers could not grow without the cool glacier water

which brings clarity to the crispness of March mornings.

I asked my father to stop the turning of the seasons.

He told me if I looked close enough, I would find that

life marches on no matter the color of the leaves.

- 

rm