Memories of Soft Light

The sun came out for a moment today and, while I am fully aware that November has hardly begun, I couldn’t help but picture ice dripping on a late-April afternoon.

Long, purple shadows fading into the pale-yellow, watery light, the sound of running water in the sidewalk cracks and bare branches fencing in the breeze like knights of dark and light.

 It builds an ethereal feeling, one of floating with feet still planted, facing the sunset and dreaming of summer.

It’s like mixing watercolor paints, brilliant oranges and reds flowing into pastel pinks and swirling amongst a soft periwinkle to make a perfect non-color against a glowing autumn-morning silver.

It feels like wearing church clothes on a Tuesday, like reading classics by candlelight, or sailing on a perfect mirror of a lake.

To be very specific, it feels like Easter Morning at five a.m. the year after your last egg hunt, suspended, in between the past and the future when the present feels too surreal to ever feel real.

The taste of sun I got today was something special, serene and perfect, a gentle caress before She goes with Hades for the winter. 

So I vandalized the sidewalk in permanent markers, rocks cutting into my knees. And I wrote a hope that’s becoming so swiftly a promise to you.

And believe me, I meant what I wrote.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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