Transitions
My devotion to Fridays in Bracciano has gone slightly slack. Such is life, full of holes. Without transition. Now it’s here, then it’s gone. I don’t know where I got the idea of transitions from. Perhaps my flight paced ideals wove them out of the silk worm’s threads; perhaps transitions had reason to create their own existence. Oh well! Fall is upon us and I’ve forgotten what the heavy heat of summer was like. How I sat with the window open and the balmy breeze drifted in sweetly from the lake. How the light shone and blessed and streaked all with its rich full yellow spell.
I haven’t forgotten. But where was the transition? It’s like cool fell and crashed and I was forced to reach for my sweater. What right have I to complain? In my native Michigan frost will soon begin glazing the land and killing all good things which are still ripe under the earth and above it. This past weekend I went swimming in the cerulean waters of the Mediterranean; I watched the light shadows dance under the water. But I felt cold.
I don’t like cold.
Why couldn’t there have been a transition? I imagine the transition lasting until January, a gradual descent of coldness, it reaches a peak of deep-freeze and immediately spikes up again, heat on the rise.
The cold is settling. I see it in long shadows and short light. I feel it in the antiquated stone walls. The cats are getting shivers. I reach for my sweater. At least I have a lot of work to do.
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z