Oct 28, 2009 11:29
I feel like I've been in bed for two months now, just sitting back with my door closed and my computer on my lap, soft white light coming through the windows against my bare walls. There's so much stillness in an empty room and I love that I'm here.
There are still leaves, and the snow twists and turns in the air with drama, clings to a leaf and the leaf shakes it off in the wind.
Cars drive over the wet road and each rotation splashes the pavement with a grey brown mixture formerly of the sky.
My hair is long and there's a teacup on the floor beside my bed, and a wine glass in front of the window, on the desk. (It's stained with smudges of fingerprints and purple with sediment at the bottom.)
The fan on the ceiling hangs as a monument statue to the seasons past and passing. It is the first snow. (It has snowed before, but this is the first snow.)
It is the first snow, but it is still fall.
Leaf piles must be condensed and pumpkins must be carved and there are still apples to pick and costumes to finish. There are other lists, too, to complete. Other lists to think up and write down.
It's a familiar scene; here the understudies have the stage.
denver co,
chill,
snow