Golden as the Summer

A Poem By Hannah W. // 8/26/2009

*a sequel.*

They sell fruit in the grocery, and bread.
And greens, and all the usual things.
But it is cold now, and the lushness looks out of place.
I suppose I do, too, because I am alone, and I wear grey.

The basket I carry is red plastic,
I remember fiery orange, pink as wild orchids,
bluer than the sky.
But I don't believe in that anymore, I remind myself. That was years ago.
I still sometimes look at the passing faces,
here under flourescent lights,
the sky already dark.

I walk slowly, tired from a long day. There is the bread I need.
Dark green gloves reach for the best loaf.
I look up, a little mad.
And then my heart races. Crow eyes stare back at me.
They are young, and not quite as wise as the ones I once knew,
but they shine.

"Sorry-- did you want this?" He must be my age.
Memories flood back; I recognize his face. Older now.
I don't know whether to shake my head or nod, so I bite my lip.
Recognition flits across his face. Oh, oh no.
"It-it's you!" The young crow eyes look so happy. Then he lowers his voice.
"So," he asks, "where is it?"
He means the blue, I realize. Oh, the blue.
But I don't believe it anymore, I remind myself. That was years ago. 
I clear my throat. "Gone," I say.
But my voice cracks a little. Unexpectedly. 
The coat I once believed in hangs in the closet now, dusty and forgotten. 
Or at least I try to forget. 
"What do you mean?" he asks, the deep eyes wide. 
"It was years ago," I say softly. His face falls. He hands me the bread and begins to turn away. 
My heart sinks. Unexpectedly. 
But then he whispers, "She wouldn't let anyone else try it on, you know." He looks sad as he reaches into his pocket and hands me a green cloth bag. "You can look in it when you're ready," he adds, and then he is gone.

I am driving, but the snow is falling on my windsheild.
Each tiny piece seems to say, open it. open it. open it.
I don't know why, but I turn right instead of left today. 
Soon it's in my sight. The sprawling, empty fields where the booths stood,
and perhaps still stand,
every summer. 
And there is the tree where the old crow eyes used to watch from the shade,
knowing, laughing, silent. 
I climb out of the car and the cold swallows me. This grey coat is not so warm, I realize.
I shake my head and walk trhough the field to stand under the tree, 
Wondering at my strange decision. Because I don't believe. 
So why am I here? I open the bag and pull objects from the green velvet.
Three marbles, glassy and clouded.
A shard of sparkling glass. I see my reflection in it, and behind me, blue. Beautiful blue. 
Bluer than the sky. 
I swallow past a lump in my throat. My breath hitches. 
But I don't... I don't believe it anymore. I don't. 
I breath smoothly again.
The last thing is a scrap of paper. On it are written three words, and three words only.

I hear footsteps and whirl around. 
"I knew you would be here," he says, and comes to stand beside me. 
I don't speak. I don't know what to think. I look away from his eyes, becuase they are so deep.
His coat is golden as the summer. 
Suddenly he has reached out to me and enveloped me. I don't fight against it. I don't speak. 
I look up at his crow eyes. They are concerned, and yet wise. They are asking.
I am wondering what to answer. I am torn two ways. 
I want to. I am afraid. 
Something falls from a branch above me.
I look up. A crow looks back at me, clicking its beak.
I turn and see what has fallen, crumpled in the snow. 
I pick it up and look back at the crow.
Take it, her eyes say. Take it. It is yours.
"Will you?" he asks. I shed my grey coat and stand there, frozen, holding the blue one. 
I want to. I am afraid. It is lovely. It is blue. 
I pull it on. It is soft and perfect. I am warm. 
The crow eyes smile. 
I take his hand and we walk together through the snow.
Music, beautiful music, floats from folds of colorful fabric as we go,
the snow gently falling. 
The crow flies after us, her wings beating softly.
One glossy feather drops in front of me. He picks it up. 
Holds it out to me. 
I take it with a smile, and then it seems that the whole world changes,
and it is summer once more.  



I'm still not sure what this poem or it's prequel means but I think it's lovely and touching anyway!

Sarah | Wed, 08/26/2009

"Sometimes even to live is courage."

Blogging away!

This is deep, Hannah. It made

This is deep, Hannah. It made me smile-and for some bizzare reason, it made me want to cry. It's amazing. Someday, write a book of poetry, and post the date of it's release on AP, because I will buy it.

E | Wed, 08/26/2009

"You were not meant to fit into a shallow box built by someone else." -J. Raymond


I loved it, it was beautiful!

Bernadette | Mon, 08/31/2009