Maggie

16

Fall’s Perspective of Summer

I must admit that I am a quiet sort of season,
Mostly confused and meek,
Not even deciding on a name,
At times, I am called by the overly refined title of Autumn,
When I prefer the simple name, Fall.

I fade before I can blow a full gust of wind and let ice rain upon the earth,
Though I am not quite yet myself when the sun’s strong rays beat upon the pavement,
I am the rustling of dry leaves just before the day ends,
I am the whimpering breeze dying out,
As the temperature falls short of making up its’ mind whether to truly be hot or cold.

But let me tell you about Summer,
I shake hands with her at the end of every year,
It is a warm embrace as her long sunburned days encase my short, unpredictable ones,
And although I can never feel what she is like outside of this small gesture,
I know she must be wonderful.

I imagine she is an artist who creates the most brilliant landscapes with her touch.
She paints the second coat of color on newly bloomed flowers,
Once soft and faint in the hands of Spring,
Now rich and vibrant under her care.
She lines the streets with lush greens,
Filling in the gaps with vibrant buds blooming atop of them;
The silken emerald pillows lying underneath nature’s most valuable gems.

When she takes a paint brush to the sky,
She is able to create the most intricate shades of blue each day,
Some afternoons it seems to match the clearest waves in the ocean,
And others with its’ spotting of white fluffy clouds,
Can only be compared to the beauty of a speckled robin’s egg in Spring.

Her sunsets are a palette all on their own,
Soaking the sky in streaks of rose, apricot, and crimson,
An electric tie dye that sinks into the night.
The transition itself is so beautiful,
You forget to be afraid of the dark,
With such a warm, lingering, glow,
Fading slowly into the night,
Bringing you comfort as you stay outside.

She never leaves you without light,
Always wanting to make sure there is something there for you to find your way,
Mixing just the right shade of dark blue,
And dispersing twinkling stars across the sky,
Just so it is possible to see,
All the beauty nature often hides at night with its pitch black skies,
Underneath the cover of a silken, sapphire, evening gown, adorned with diamonds.

I imagine that is how she paints everything though,
In rich bejeweled colors,
From the glint of rust on an old school swing set at night,
Where kids play and don't worry about sleeping,
To the winking golden lights of fireflies,
That are scattered on an otherwise shadowy backdrop.

Yet she does not stop there,
Her nimble fingers deftly skim along a white orb each night,
Shading in each nuance from cream to ivory,
Molding the textured craters of the moon in her hands,
Turning each of its’ faces into carefully etched abstract pieces.

I've even heard sometimes,
She fills all these different colored balloons up with glow-in-the-dark paint,
Popping them all one night in July,
Making the loudest bangs,
As colors streaks across the sky in a rainbow of lights.

With that kind of radiant talent,
I should long to be as alive as she,
Wanting for her to paint me anew,
Turning me into one of her glittering masterpieces,
That each possess such immense grace and spirit,
And not to simply be the keeper of smashed pumpkins and burnt turkeys on forgotten holidays.

But even more so, I simply wish to know her better,
To be held under that very same twinkling sky,
To share in her bright colors, I only catch a glimpse of fading,
To listen to the full throttled laughter of carefree people she keeps under her watch,
That I can only strain to hear echoes of.

But like the brittle crunch of leaves underneath my feet,
I know my dreams are fading with me,
Reality blowing them away into nothing more than dust,
So that when I reach out for my one and only embrace with Summer,
Always lingering a little too long,
Holding on a little too tight before reluctantly letting go,
The beginning of my season will be confusingly warm.
And all too soon,
I will just as reluctantly give myself over to the iron grip of Winter,
Crumbling stubbornly, but weakly into his icy hands,
Shivering and whimpering as the last of leaves fall bare,
And I am but a ghost, the cold, invisible stranger,
Only kept warm by a memory of the short lived but long imagined embrace of Summer.