Every face of the pen reflected light as well as any mirror. On hot sunny days it remained cool. In mid-winter’s grasp it absorbed adventitious rays of the hearth. It’s tip was level. Its grip hugged back my keen writing fingertips. Ink cartridges replenished. Words of happy cadence sprang. The new page had been pretty, all potential and no verbal vignette, yet the heart must be lightened to breathe life into ink, to resuscitate good ideas that should live. As a wordsmith-knight, I was proud.
River nibbled the frost bitten field as the last mean straws did rot. Footfalls found no cushioning, yet a jolt of ice-baked land. No tear could fall into winter’s hand, so cold embattled was that site. The sun could rise to full power, ignite every hue to full-bright, and still it would go on in subzero grumble, still it would shun spring’s extended hand. Bitter, so bitter, was the field, and ne’er once did I figure out its sullen rationale.
Arrows of light met the ground that August day a few hours past noon. The mossy-grass beneath the grand oak became dappled, puddles of light playing happily with those of shadow. Alice reached out her hand, raising it to the sun. Warm. It felt so very warm. Filling her lungs with the air of evergreens, she closed her eyes to make a memory. On the cold winter days ahead she would want to remember this.
Petals origami-reverse at light's sweetest entreaty. Spring is here! Fresh butterfly wings expand. Spring is here! Aromas are our elevator music, humblest ambient serenade. Spring is here! Birdsong bursts forth as auditory fireworks. Spring is here! Let limbs ba-boom upon the earth and release the heart for dancing capers!
Autumnal rain was summer's envelope, sealing her safely in until her time returned. Do not open until mid June sings. Do not open until mid June stretches her wings. Quenched forest earth opened wide brown arms. Quenched trees took their fill. Fish swam in liberated arcs, sensing the cleaner flow. Though cooler were the promised days, announced by the glossy reds and golds above, the drumming of the raindrops was heart-music far and wide.
Angry wipers struck each tear-blue lens beneath a darkening rainbow-void. The city streets by noon languished as ashen grey. The trickle of cars, nose to tail, lurched on only to stop. Eyes beneath umbrella’s brim found no sight other than concrete’s wave. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. Drenching cold set in. Then for the listening ear, howling wind did begin to sing. It was no happy choir, no opera singer upon gay stage, yet the serenade of sirens.