Let the rain fall down...
Sun is burning my skin. In mostly a metaphorical way, although I tend to get redder every day.
I pray for rain, and I don't pray often. Some sharp breeze to blow my hair, the right weather for knitted scarves and sweaters with hoods and pale makeup and rosy cheeks, and gloves that keep your fingers warm even in the snow. And I want to be peltered by tiny pellets of water on my face, and I want the drops to stick to my eyelashes and eyelids and lips and face and clothes and drench me in the glorious announcement of autumn.
Autumn. When the leves change from green to yellows and burgundies and bright, bright orange that makes your heart swell to look at. And walking down roads where the limbs are shedding these costumes, and your feet are cascading over the brown that these leaves become, and there is the music of crunching beneath toes that now wear socks because it is too cold to go without. Although it isn't cold at all. Just nippy. Enough to hurt your lungs when you breathe in, but not cold enough to stay indoors.
Although the indoor days are nice, too. When you run from school to your car, your car to your house, and take off your sopping wet shoes and socks, unravel your scarf, take down your hair, drenched with cold water, and wrap up in a blanket and write in your journal with your hot chocolate and love the rain, and go to sleep to the rain, and sleep well because of the rain as it sings you to sleep with it's tapping song on the roof just above your head.
And the days you can't get up on time because the clouds cover your eyes for you. Or the smell of the first storm on the ceedars and pines and buckbrush just outside your window, the streaks the water makes in the dust your car or window has collected over a summer gone on too long, and the smell of working chimneys put to use finally after a long period of rest. The times when you can sense Halloween because the trees have dressed up, the times when you can smell Thanksgiving because the chilled breeze in the air moves it scent, and the times you know Christmas is coming because you're willing to get up on a Saturday at 6 in the freezing morning to get a tree with your family, and eggnog is on the shelves at the store and you can't find the right place to buy sugar cookies anymore.
I just wish it were autumn. For my croched scarves and wool socks and my hats and hoods and the lighting that makes my skin look pretty because it isn't being beaten by the sun. And stormy gray weather and stormy gray clouds and bright leaves against a pewter backdrop and the thought of days of old which I have not lived in this life but know as though I have... days where I see myself walking a certain road I have never passed or known in my lifetime, but the image is haunting and more. Mystic. When I feel as though I am a thousand years away, when I sit outside and the air makes my hair curly and my lips burn and turn red, and I listen to the wind and hear voices from a thousand years ago telling me that it is the season of death, and that it is not to be feared but it is beautiful. And I wish for that feeling of finality, the feeling I know I will feel when I am old and gray and cold, just like the weather, and dying like the leaves.
I believe I have experianced this many times. That the roads I see and the people I think I know I do, from past lives, and that I have an old soul, too old, and it haunts me still.
I just wish it were colder. Or that it would rain. Or that I didn't babble nonsense in Web Page class when it's 101 degrees outside.
I pray for rain, and I don't pray often. Some sharp breeze to blow my hair, the right weather for knitted scarves and sweaters with hoods and pale makeup and rosy cheeks, and gloves that keep your fingers warm even in the snow. And I want to be peltered by tiny pellets of water on my face, and I want the drops to stick to my eyelashes and eyelids and lips and face and clothes and drench me in the glorious announcement of autumn.
Autumn. When the leves change from green to yellows and burgundies and bright, bright orange that makes your heart swell to look at. And walking down roads where the limbs are shedding these costumes, and your feet are cascading over the brown that these leaves become, and there is the music of crunching beneath toes that now wear socks because it is too cold to go without. Although it isn't cold at all. Just nippy. Enough to hurt your lungs when you breathe in, but not cold enough to stay indoors.
Although the indoor days are nice, too. When you run from school to your car, your car to your house, and take off your sopping wet shoes and socks, unravel your scarf, take down your hair, drenched with cold water, and wrap up in a blanket and write in your journal with your hot chocolate and love the rain, and go to sleep to the rain, and sleep well because of the rain as it sings you to sleep with it's tapping song on the roof just above your head.
And the days you can't get up on time because the clouds cover your eyes for you. Or the smell of the first storm on the ceedars and pines and buckbrush just outside your window, the streaks the water makes in the dust your car or window has collected over a summer gone on too long, and the smell of working chimneys put to use finally after a long period of rest. The times when you can sense Halloween because the trees have dressed up, the times when you can smell Thanksgiving because the chilled breeze in the air moves it scent, and the times you know Christmas is coming because you're willing to get up on a Saturday at 6 in the freezing morning to get a tree with your family, and eggnog is on the shelves at the store and you can't find the right place to buy sugar cookies anymore.
I just wish it were autumn. For my croched scarves and wool socks and my hats and hoods and the lighting that makes my skin look pretty because it isn't being beaten by the sun. And stormy gray weather and stormy gray clouds and bright leaves against a pewter backdrop and the thought of days of old which I have not lived in this life but know as though I have... days where I see myself walking a certain road I have never passed or known in my lifetime, but the image is haunting and more. Mystic. When I feel as though I am a thousand years away, when I sit outside and the air makes my hair curly and my lips burn and turn red, and I listen to the wind and hear voices from a thousand years ago telling me that it is the season of death, and that it is not to be feared but it is beautiful. And I wish for that feeling of finality, the feeling I know I will feel when I am old and gray and cold, just like the weather, and dying like the leaves.
I believe I have experianced this many times. That the roads I see and the people I think I know I do, from past lives, and that I have an old soul, too old, and it haunts me still.
I just wish it were colder. Or that it would rain. Or that I didn't babble nonsense in Web Page class when it's 101 degrees outside.