An Av­er­age but Won­der­ful Day

Pasatiempo - - Poetry - by James Ful­reader

The cold and fresh winds come first, whis­per­ing in my ears, an off-tune song. Rustling the trees’ beau­ti­ful gowns of fiery reds, or­anges, and yel­lows. Fall, when things be­gin to die, or go into deep sleep. Though even in death and slum­ber they are beau­ti­ful. The only trees that like to keep their green gar­ments are the ever­greens. Know­ing that there must be some color in the white world of win­ter. Looking out my win­dow I see all of this beauty. I no­tice the first snow be­gins to fall, but only for a cou­ple of min­utes, snow never seems to last long enough. I like the cold. Even when it bites into my nose and ears. When I feel the cold I want to start mov­ing; I feel more alive. I get on my win­ter clothes and take a step out­side. Yet all I do is just stand there and watch the snow make its de­scent to the ground. I stick my tongue out to catch some snow. Af­ter a few sec­onds of no cold touch­ing my tongue, I re­al­ize that my breath and body heat warms and melts the snow be­fore it reaches my mouth. I hold my breath, and a few flakes make it to my tongue be­fore I ex­hale again. I play out­side for hours be­fore I make my way back to the door ready to get back into the warm house. But be­fore I can even step in­side my mom makes me do a thor­ough clean off. “Stomp and kick the snow off your boots, take off and shake the snow from your jacket, then you can come in­side. But make sure that you leave ev­ery­thing that is wet and all that in the hall so you don’t ruin the car­pet.” Lighting a fire is al­ways fun when you’ve spent time out­side, and your toes and fin­gers are so numb they seem to have gone out of ex­is­tence. So strange to watch the fire eat ravenously at the wood and be hun­gry for more. I can only sit near that flam­ing beast for so long be­fore my eyes be­gin to sting and the heat be­comes too much for me. The fire re­minds me of the trees and their vi­brant out­fits of yel­lows, reds, and or­anges. I won­der if the trees copied the fire, or did the fire copy the trees? I stand back from the fire, still star­ing into it, watch­ing it slowly eat away and break the wood. Gaz­ing into the flames, I be­gin to drift off. Go­ing from the world of re­al­ity back to the world of thought. I find my­self pac­ing back and forth, think­ing of a book I read a lit­tle while back. The book was about a boy kind of like me but in some ways com­pletely dif­fer­ent. Af­ter the fire has died down I go to my liv­ing room with glass doors and look at my snow-cov­ered back­yard.

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