I tripped into
autumn. I didn’t expect it, nor the proceeding force that pushed me past autumn
and into winter and then spring. I finally slowed and came to a halt in April
(I didn’t want to ask the date from anyone for fear of seeming asinine so I
stayed quiet until I found a marked calendar) where the first breath I took was
of lilacs and candied eggs and airy, delicate sugar. I made a home in that
season, sewed seeds and watered them and watched children with wicker baskets looking
under lawn gnomes for rainbow-esque patterned eggs from my porch. Some of them
tied ribbons around the handles of their baskets and they stayed there through
the day, ever growing tangles that would probably be there next year.
It became summer
and filled with heat, like the gust of wind from a phoenix’s feather. My home
grew with the season. My plants pushed small shoots through the soil. That was,
of course, until I tripped into autumn again.
This time I
stayed there, no hurling onward with no warning of where I might stop. It isn’t
such a big leap, but nevertheless, I think I’ll watch my step from now on.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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