Winter
The gold is almost gone.
All that hangs on the
aspens are amber, trembling caution-lights signaling the color to come – the white, the bleak, the wintertide. Years ago a magnificent girl at the Clinique counter told me ‘your skin is winter.’ At fifteen I burned to believe
anything magnificent. I still do. So while I endure other seasons I am forever antsy, waiting on days that match me, rows of ivory keys flattened or raised by the play of ebony that helps to make the season bright.
All that hangs on the
aspens are amber, trembling caution-lights signaling the color to come – the white, the bleak, the wintertide. Years ago a magnificent girl at the Clinique counter told me ‘your skin is winter.’ At fifteen I burned to believe
anything magnificent. I still do. So while I endure other seasons I am forever antsy, waiting on days that match me, rows of ivory keys flattened or raised by the play of ebony that helps to make the season bright.
Absolutely beautiful! The hurricane stripped our trees bare, leaving the gray, the black, and the blazing sun low on the horizon, shining into the deepest reaches of our sun-starved rooms. The play of ebony does indeed make the season bright.
[…] week, John delivers gold (though he claims it’s fleeting). In “Winter,” he […]
I’ve come through Deeper Church and thankful. Your words are simple beauty and tell the tale of a man who loves humbly and well. So nice to meet you John.
Thank you, Shelly…so good to meet you too.