If October is a painting by some bitter
soul,
Full of browns and oranges, reds and
whites,
Full of feeling and loss with a memory
of good times had,
Now hanging from a tree in defiance of
the wind,
Than May is like a child's
finger-paint,
Full of color and chaos, but somehow
happy,
Not even knowing of the sinister colors
of fall.
Earlier today, I rode my bike down a
mountain road.
As I rode, my brow wet and my legs
heavy,
I watched the scene before me:
A man rode his bike ahead of me.
He turned along a curve which was
inevitable,
And he was then lost from my sight.
In that moment, in this place of green
and yellow,
I was alone and I was struck by
isolation.
As I rounded the corner, I saw the man
and I smiled
Like I would upon seeing an old friend.
As I ride my bike on the rode, my mind
is far away.
It sits in a yard with an old friend
from school.
It has been a long while since I've
seen him,
My little black book gathering dust by
the phone.
And this too caused my brow to sweat,
Though I no longer smiled.
I thought back to that foggy morning on
Little Hill.
I remember the depiction of a cross
embodied in stone,
Marking his bed and at that moment, the
fog felt right,
Enveloping us in our blindness.
Once in a dream, I opened my eyes to
darkness.
I sat at the bottom of the sea in a
reef.
I looked around and saw the life
surrounding me
And I opened my mouth to say something,
But all that came out was a small
bubble,
Eager to reach the light above.
I never thought life could be so
comical.
The humor in the situation I found
myself in
On that mountain road was like
Children in their parents garb,
Playing like adults in a ballroom,
Clumsily doing a 1-2 step they'd only
ever seen
On television shows so that when they
attempt to
Execute their waltz, it looks more like
A baby's square dance.
Believe me, what happened next was
equally comical,
Like a giant man-baby in the corner,
Being scolded by his mother;
A sight which I have not seen, but if I
had,
It would cause me to chuckle in horrid
hooting stanza.
As I rode along the road, a car passed
a little too slow.
The music coming from within was also
comical,
Like Cotton-eyed Joe.
I remember an old dance.
The worst thing he ever said to me was
at school dance.
He said, “I'm going to kiss her
tonight.”
This strikes me now, because I don't
think he ever did.
These days, I feel like I have to hold
onto him,
Like a trapeze artist holding his
partner
Who is only dead weight. I find it
harder
And harder to remember last May,
With happiness in the air and
Color on the ground.
Listen, life is a year.
In May, you feel the sun and by
October,
The sun is a happy memory and by
January,
you have forgotten it entirely.
But you would never appreciate May
without
The Fall.
Once in October, I sat in that misty
yard.
I looked at that stone which
Inscribed the years and names.
I sat there for awhile and then I stood
Without saying a word.
I did an about face and I marched away.
I marched out of that yard,
Out of that fog,
Out of those old woods,
Out of those old metal gates,
And I marched into the sun and walked
down the road.
It is not October, it is May.
The fog is gone and the trees are
green.
I continue my bike ride.
May is warm and I am hot and
I think of my cold water bottle in the
fridge.
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