I used to be good at some bird calls when I was a kid. It was important to impress my classmates with something. I was always shy and withdrawn, so competing in anything was difficult.
Then we learned how to dance in the winter, when the snow was too deep for us to go outside for recess. And then, when I got older, I excelled in sports. Which explains my arthritic joints, now.
Then I went back to dancing as an adult. Now I just sit out the dances because I have no dance partner. Go figger. I sure never thought I would live half of my life alone. If I had, I could have prepared for it better.
No, you couldn't.
I have a poem that captures the moment. It's completely wrong for the season though. Give it a read:
Last Fall
The days are short, the wind has grown,
My community has now all flown.
I stare at emptiness all around,
And brownish carpeting on the ground.
When I was young, so long ago,
The days seemed endless, ever so.
I was so green. I’ve learned a lot.
So many shared my lofty spot.
We danced and twirled the time away,
Forgetful of the length of day,
With unseen music through the bright,
And whispers in the silent night.
Alone, I watch the neighborhood,
A stark and silent stretch of wood,
Tears sometimes dim the golden days,
Until the scene is filled with haze.
And only memory serves to fill,
The lonely times upon this hill.
They all have gone now, I remain,
A sad perspective is my gain.
They’ve departed, this way and that,
A graceful tip of an invisible hat,
And scattered to the winds they were,
Until only I am left to stir,
I twist to shed the Winter’s blast,
As I enjoy my being last,
And in the bleak and dismal scene,
I long for days when things were green.
One morning, I awake to find,
The world transformed while I was blind.
In darkness, change had come within the night,
The brown became a world of white!
In joy at last I chanced the breeze,
And danced among the stark black trees.
On stiffened fingertips, I race,
Across the snow without a trace.
All through the day I dance and twirl,
‘Til dizzy with the endless whirl,
I fetch up in a tent of green,
And on a sturdy trunk I lean.
The needle-leaves fresh fragrance sends,
With frozen tears the branch then bends.
I look at stars through crystal lens,
I settle down, and dream of friends.
NicknamedBob . . . . . October 19, 2006