i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

the crisp feel of fall

i called it my season, claimed its colors and its dry, decaying feel.

the idea of green to gold to death to cold was marvelous,

in its angst, in its very end it always signaled the beginning of another year.

and it was always how i felt.

now i'm finding myself on the busy streets of a new life,

with a coffee cup in hand, dodging puddles on the street

retracting my head further into a scarf to shield my face from

cold wet winds

and i figure,

i love the spring.

i love that it rains, and it soaks, and it looks so murky

but that all means soon things will grow.

that the snow from the sky has faded to rain

and in their vigor they smash themselves into millions of droplets against

the pavement, against the windows, against my heart.

i like that its beginning signals the end.

the end of the year, the end of the cold, the end of the snow.

and then i think about this,

and in my fantasies about endless days of doing things only i want to do,

i recall my affection for the summer.

summer in its heat, in its slow laze and haze

in the lapping of the waves, and the meat,

in late nights and late mornings and afternoons of

nothing and nothing.

in chilled teas, in sweating and the sun

in brilliant skies and oppressive times.

and then i wish and i wish for

the winter and its cold fingers.

in the glittering of flashes of snow

and the feel of ice packing itself neatly

under your feet - the perfect imprint of a boot.

and in winter hot soup is particularly friendly

and so are hot teas and cozy afternoons in bed with books

and friends and a good time.

in christmases, snowball fights and the

beautiful things of good cheer.

what is the point then?

i realize the scope of beauty in life

is in my loving of it.

and the more affection i pour into the things i do day to day make it all the more precious.

skipping puddles, making snow angels, sun-tanning or jumping leaves.

i live from autumns to springs and then to autumns again.

by that i mean i live.

and each step has served its purpose because i took that step with everything i had, in everything i did, for everything to come.

these words too,

serve their purpose.

and in my practiced silence

i realize i've been speaking louder than i have in a long time.