First day of autumn.
It's sad to see summer fade--summer has such energy, so much potential, a certain freedom, sunshine and heat--but I've always had a fondness for autumn. There's such a sense of possibility even as the year wanes, a joy in the newness of the change of seasons that hearkens back to the pure waxy smell of a new box of crayons, the feel of a fat pencil in a small hand, the beauty of an unused eraser, all bound up with the finality of the last time one smells new mown grass until spring.
Possibility, even as dark overtakes day.
New clothes, a rich stew, the smell of woodsmoke in the rain, the softness of a warm sweater.
Wet leaves slipping underfoot.
Last night, I dreamed I was singing.
"It seems so close," I thought as I awoke, but the thought slipped back into the realm of sleep even as I opened my eyes.
But I remembered the words I was singing:
"I can see the lighthouse..."
And today, simply, happiness that I cannot define, laced with all the sweetness of a new apple.
World Series, pumpkins, daylight slipping away earlier. Memory, too, enough to give me goosebumps, but I am the one who is always looking forward.
Warming one's hands in the pockets of someone else's coat. A kiss in the first chill of early evening.
Possibility seems to be right around the corner.
Go listen to some good music: "Hands Open" from the album Eyes Open by Snow Patrol.