Word Count: 241
I’ve walked through the bright crunch of autumn, kicking up leaves in a swirl. I’ve felt the warm earth pierced by spring growth. I’ve lain on the soft green grass and watched clouds puff their way across summer skies.
Now I slog through the snow, deep and cold at my ankles. Each trudging step cuts the smooth glistening surface; right, left, right, left. The trees around me are weighted by layers of white frosting, their tips poking out like chocolate curls. There is a quiet beauty about it, as if life has been muffled by soft fluffy blankets, suspended in sleep.
There were times when I ran freely, oblivious to rain, wind, and thunder. With my shadow a billowing parachute alongside. When I stood fearlessly watching as the sky sent down great cracks of lightning and lit the horizon with silhouette trees, angles of houses, gray angry clouds. Then there were times where the days laughed and spilled like a stream over rocks split with mica, wearing them down, polishing their depth, even as they lay still in their beds.
I stop, look ahead to the west where the sun is a beacon to travelers. Behind, to the east, where my progress is evident, where my footprints are deep in the snow. I am weary yet fascinated to see where they’ve been, staggering in a path, tethering me to a past that stretches into this moment before they all melt away.
