Waiting for the moment...
And so begins another year. The passing of the stifling humidity of July, and the settling in of the August and September breezes. Strange, though, how this year I can't smell freshness in the wind. Or at least, it doesn't seem as present as it used to be. There's a kind of dust hanging about, the remnants of previous ages and times, that manages to cling to the air despite the wind, and layers of it settle ever so softly on my skin. It isn't a dust that itches. It's the kind that settles deep down to the bone and gives a feeling of pervasive weight.
I find myself wishing for October. I want to see the leaves fall, the crisp touch of the winter beginning to displace the dust and make it flake off into the earth. And in winter, I'll wrap my topcoat around me and don my fedora, and walk out among the flaking snow that keeps the dust in its place. I need the cold to feel warm again. I need this old ivy to die back so my feet can move. I need the solace of snowfall.
And how I wish (but what a faint idea it seems) that there would be another set of footsteps in the snow ahead. But that's a December dreaming, and meanwhile the sun falls from the leaves like rain, and the dust drifts along the currents of the air. The snow melts and dries before I even see it.
I find myself wishing for October. I want to see the leaves fall, the crisp touch of the winter beginning to displace the dust and make it flake off into the earth. And in winter, I'll wrap my topcoat around me and don my fedora, and walk out among the flaking snow that keeps the dust in its place. I need the cold to feel warm again. I need this old ivy to die back so my feet can move. I need the solace of snowfall.
And how I wish (but what a faint idea it seems) that there would be another set of footsteps in the snow ahead. But that's a December dreaming, and meanwhile the sun falls from the leaves like rain, and the dust drifts along the currents of the air. The snow melts and dries before I even see it.