The Season of Irony

I long for fireworks during the onset of July.  Not for the reasons you think.

I wandered aimlessly in a park; amazed at a family of ducks.  What perfect order of beauty.  What family was meant to be.  Mother duck seemed to smile as she counted the heads of each of her children.  I tossed a lone piece of bread in hopes for her approval.

I long for the colors that paint the sky in early July.  Not for the reasons you think.

I asked myself a question as the family of ducks passed me by:  "Where is the patriarch?  Why is Father Duck never to be seen?"
  

On certain days of summer, I felt like I was God.  Like when I was a kid; burning ants with a magnifying glass.  Like sleeping in past noon with no worries on my shoulders.  Like tossing a piece of bread at the happy family of ducks.

I long for lazy days.  Not for the reasons you might think.

If only walls could talk, secrets would not exist.  If only walls weren't built, summer would never end.



I long for endless winters huddled next to burning embers.  Not for the reasons you think.


I could find a friend in a snowman with a corncob pipe dangling from his mouth.  What a perfect snapshot of wisdom.  What a friendly face to see. 

I could find a friend in a snowman; even a father on restless days.  I told him all my secrets.   I begged him not to leave.

The creation of my own hands had this look of nonchalance.  Not to be confused with indifference.  Like the father I never knew, he would soon melt away.

I long for winter's endless possibilities.  Not for the reasons you might think.

On certain days of winter, I never build a fire.  There's something about the cold that makes me feel alive.  There's something chilling in the air.  I prefer the beauty in the bleak. 

But not for reasons you might think.


If only walls could talk, secrets would not exist.  If only walls weren't built, winter would never come.