Cameron

17

Turning

I walk on air in the early summer.
There is no wrong; there is no right.

There is.

There is possibility, and adventure, and at times complete lethargy.
The sun emerges again and we revel in forgotten warmth.
We keep secrets and share the ideas ensconced in the part of our minds only accessible in the twilight.

And we were happy, together, with our inane and insignificant plans for how we would change the world.

Then you wanted freedom of thought and deed, and journeys I thought were dreams.
I wouldn’t notice an absence, you said, because you’d be back before the season turned.

But the corn has grown since you asked me to wait.
Knee high by the fourth of July and harvested when ripe.
The lupines have bloomed and faded and gone.

The days lengthened to a glorious, glittering crescendo when I thought the stars would never shine again, for night would never come.

And that’s when I realized – while waiting for the sunset, and waiting for you.

We live for the light of the stars and the endless wonder in which they exist.
Day is always the sweeter for the night that has passed.

So for a moment, I remember June, and am walking on air again. The assurance of a long summer haze is fresh.

It is tranquil in this world of mine.

But autumn has its colors, and winter its snow, and life is new in spring.
I begin to welcome the reality of darkness, and frost, and endings.