by Brenda Ethridge

Created on: January 06, 2010

It's Only Seasonal, this Thing That's in the Air

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

Four Seasons in a man.

When I was a child, spring days were filled with rich green grass, abundant and well supplied. My sisters and brothers used to call it Easter grass, long before the holiday came around, as it seemed just the sort a magical bunny would hop into, the abounding, ample young lawn. It was entirely made for colorful eggs to be displayed, a new copious meadow. Brand-new, dewy, budding, burgeoning, turf; such were the days of my youth, my spring.

Spring winds blowing rapidly by. Fresh drops of rain refreshing the days.  Blood pumped into vessels, flowing free.  Bubbling up, birthing.  Ahh, my spring.

As summer came, we roamed on the hot tar of the pavement of our street, ironically called Frost Avenue. The dark, inky, coal path on which we traveled calloused our bare feet, and as we grew, the charcoal smoked artery took us to new places, school, first loves, friendships, young adulthood, and finally leading away from the ebony raven, known as Frost Avenue, altogether.

Hot blood of summer.  Boiling blood and brains.  Washing with its sweat.  Temperaments pushing, rising.  Ooh, my summer.    

In the fall, we raked the leaves into piles, the gilded autumnal foliage. And we jumped, hearing the crackling, splutter and sputter of the amber leaflet harvest. We jumped into another life with children at our side, jobs to attend to, and houses to purchase. The jump took us to a new crinkle and snap as we raked our own heaps and collections of past years.

The coolness and slowing of autumn.  Slow motion leaves blown near to legs.  Stubborn, fragile leaves.  Gusts of coolness foreshadowed.  Umm, my autumn.

As winter came, alabaster snowmen were built. Extremely pale hands became cold enough to become solid. Breath, chilled to the bone, hung in mid air. As it hung for ages, it became harder to bring in and out. White, bleached snow turned to chalky, ivory hair. Grandchildren sat on knees. Pearly white horses soon arrived to take us once again home, parading finely down Frost Avenue, past the unsuspecting snowmen, the deceitful leaves, the cowardly tar, and the sneaky grass, marching to the tempo of eras.

Hard, unfaithful winter.  Chilling what was once steamy.  Staunch in its beliefs.  Reigning in its sovereignty.  Oh, my winter.

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