the wake from my stride brings a flurry of conversation. the leaves admonishing my path over and through them. the wind shushing the complaints and soothing the golden blanket back down onto the concrete bed.
i smile as the brisk air caresses my cheeks as my mother used to. brushing my hair gently out of my face. rubbing my forehead. and placing a single kiss upon my hairline.
my eyes are heavy with the season. the almond shapes are full of trees turning red. of dark berries hanging pregnantly from barren trees. of crimson and burgundy ornaments dotting the hedgerows. they are bitter and sour parcels awaiting harvest and sugar to unlock their rich flavor. forgotten now by a generation of children fed by industrial meals and conformity.
i do not have enough space in my arms to save all these riches. i am no budha with the universe in my mouth. but i can keep a photo of them. the knowledge of them. their presence fills my soul and brightens my smile.
i let this truth slip into the air. my lungs force it out. urging the world to know. to wonder. to sleep. to wake.
i walk on.