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The trees of green, orange and red that line my drive to work thirty minutes each way five days a week, as well as the sumptuous light that rises behind the green barn each morning, have filled my sight with eye candy. Filled up past capacity, over-saturated. All that bending of apple boughs, swelling of gourds, plumping of hazel shells, angled light brimming over, clouds blooming, and twittering swallows that Keats wrote of in his Ode, frankly have me gasping for the bare bones of winter. Don't show me one more beautiful leaf on your blog, I beg you -- I'll explode!
I try to live in the moment, but I'm longing for less opulent ones. I covet the next season, looking over the fence toward not greener grass, but whiter. I can't take any more of this beauty I tell you. Even this shiny Beetle I saw two weeks ago the same day I stopped to take pictures of a patch heavy with pumpkins as far as the eye could see maxed me out with its allurements. Do I want to hop in and ramble down Route 66 on a two week road trip? Not really. I'm riched out!
I want smooth flat crispy snow fields with a spike or two of corn. I want bare black trees lining them. I want to come home and after supper I want the glowing family room window pulling me back to the house from the corncrib with an armful of firewood.
Come here wind, blow away all this color. I want to go inside and hibernate.
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