Tangerine: A Book of Hours

The first snow flutters down in lavender twilight. Whitening ground glistens with moisture, Autumn's leaves still scattered...but slowly being erased. And the light perceptibly deepens, turning smokey purple.

It is not that cold, just enough to bring a flush to cheeks after re-entering the house. Melting flakes glimmering away to water on coat and cap. And on the parkway, traffic slows. And groans.

Grass, trees, and earth take to snow-white easier than concrete and asphalt. The streets shine: wet but not frozen. Yet.

Thanksgiving hovers in the air, a few circular sweeps away. Candles glow electrically from windows...as it gets darker. Dusk falling down in random flecks. A sky drawing close. In the twilight, the snow is luminescent, defining earthy curves and hollows.

It is Tuesday and Winter is brushing by -- just a visit: a crystalline smile over a pale shoulder as she moves past.

And turns the world to quiet white.

Posted by The Allurium at 5:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's a rainy fifth of November, so I'm listening to Depeche Mode: "A Question of Lust"...

Election day, and it is cold. The sky is a low smear of gray cotton. Autumn leaves are color pops in the watery daylight.

I'm fairly vague at the moment. I should be doing some work but feel wavery and unfocused. Actually, what I feel like doing is popping out, buying the Spider-Man dvd, grabbing something to eat, and then settling in watch the movie.

At some point I just may do that.

I voted this afternoon and always feel quietly satisfied after I do that. There was a small group of political folk near the entrance to the firehall, passing out pamphlets and such, urging you to vote for their candidates. They always make me feel awkward. It seems rude to only accept papers from one, yet odd to take everyone's stuff. Amusingly enough, about twenty paces from where they gather, there is always a large trash can where you can toss the items you've just been given, before entering the actual polling place.

Kind of symbolic, if you ask me.

Anyway.

Still drifting through the day, here. The stereo is still playing. The day is still silvery gray (now dimming). A chilly drizzle is dropping down, swirled by random gusts of wind.

I'm thinking a warm bowl of soup might be just the thing for supper. And maybe a cup of coffee, for old time's sake.

Oh yeah, and Spider-Man...

Posted by The Allurium at 4:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Quiet.

Quiet. A sky the color of obsidian, pushing cool air over hills. Through trees. Rustling leaves that are shadows, now -- but in the daylight: green, yellow, and red-orange.

Cool. A rumor of snow on the air. Guttering candlelight still flickering from the jack-o-lanterns...casting light-shadow faces over dark ground.

Earth that is still damp from previous night-rains. Stones grown frigid. Breath mists on the air, now. Vaporous.

Inside, a clock sweeps through moments and warm air whispers from floor vents. Summer’s heat-shimmer is a dream, at this tick of the seasonal clock.

Time. Minutes and hours, days and moments, pouring into holidays and year ends. In the near past, the day before was bright. Sun still shining down vivid on mostly emerald. But with golden accents. The sly smile of frost.

Tomorrow.

Today...

November.

Posted by The Allurium at 12:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)