Before the seasons change

There's a faint waft of terracotta drifting through the crack in my dark wooden shutter. I can taste the commotion of buttons meeting boots as the sweaters thicken and the crisp air thins. A glimmer of summer escapes from my dresser as the glamor of autumn hangs neatly in rows. I breathe in today, because it's always today and never yesterday, and smile. Tchaikovsky sits in artful summary on the music stand atop my keyboard. Four seasons. The leaves outside are swirling in triplets as the sirens find E flat. Quaint.

I'd been gathering friends like roses, selected in intimate bouquets, and I've been picking out the thorns. I've been peeling away all the he saids and she saids. I've been whittling down to the wick of it all to allow for another bloom.

You want to be there for people, until you realize you love them less than the pain you share. Voice leading fails. The arrangement's unbalanced. You pick another tune.

And still there are the winter markets. The crinkle of December flickers like a comforting candle in a frostbitten garden. My best friend will hold my hand and we will walk through lantern painted skating rinks as the snowflakes light the darkening afternoons. Teacups will mix with warm lattes and we'll smile as strangers lean in to skim the steam. The saxophones will tune to cello and I'll fall for Saint-Saens all over again.

And all will be as it should.