Traces of Fall
I have sat on top of this hill numerous times. Wanting the wind to cool my bare skin when September arrives. Wanting to become the wind itself.
We can't see the wind, but we can see the green on the ground flicker and sway; we can see movement after two months of utter stillness under the drying sun.
If my summers are for turning points, then my falls are for transition.
These winds have blown past the discoloration on my arm and the scar above my chest from that one summer.
These winds have blown past young love found and young love lost.
They've blown past unexpected second chances and sweet renewal.
And these September winds; they will continue to blow, stirring what's been at rest, awakening the air inside our lungs.