dandilion wine

Right now the windows are wide open and the evening light is streaming in, painting golden triangles on the floor. Everything glows at this time of day, as the light glides across imperfections and gilds the walls. The air is cooler today, cool enough that I wore a sweater to work and I wouldn’t mind wearing closed-toe shoes. I want to walk down to the library, stretching out my arms and feeling the air, smooth as silk against my skin. I wish the light had a smell; I think it would resemble the smell of apple cider, but somehow lighter, fainter, and more etheral. Like the look of dandilion wine–the remants of summer, caught in a glass, suspended forever. I want to live in this moment, this evening, this day, hugging it to me, capturing the minutes, for I won’t have another fall here.
I’ll never again get to watch the trees go from green to brownish orange to brown, thinking that’s the way trees are, wondering what’s all the fuss about fall colors. I’ll never live with the tang of chickens always in the air, so that I forget about it and don’t even notice. I’ll never breathe a sigh of relief that the tourists are gone, glad that they are no longer clogging the roads, and relishing those crisp, cool days on the beach when you have to wear a sweatshirt but it’s never looked quite so beautiful.
Only sixty-seven more days.

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~ by wildeyedwonder on September 6, 2005.

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