Memory

From a jumbled thought, inscribed in pen.

Not too long ago (or at least as much as my mind can put the pieces of the weeks back together) I could see the side of the mountain ridge from my windowsill. Out past the wood and glass framed box, trees strung themselves in my vision as the mountainside crept into the forefront of my vision. From what I can remember, it was about late May. I could feel the haze of summer growing on the little hairs on my knuckles, while my fingernails gathered dirt from days spent under sunbaked skies. Youth collected itself and set out onto a journey of its own. Careful to live by some principles which I sill hold close (closer maybe); I followed. Springtime, though beginning to paint daylight green, left the branches bare enough so I could manage to see the thick belly and stout neck of the earthen giant sleeping outside the town. July is coming close, everything is still flowing! Without trace but with doubt the branches have filled in the gaps where the mountain could be seen. A wall of exploding verts trembles against my vision and instills vigor in my blood. Passion boils and yells like a tea kettle inside the season. Long walks, pond gazes, and the conversations that sleep beneath the folds in my brain come to mind as I crane my neck to try and get a glimpse of the mountain. All I can see are the low hanging electric lines, the usual cast of oaks, pines, and maples, and a few songbirds that dance to their own music. June is almost over, no matter that the mountain cannot be seen. Let the green make me weightless so I can float amidst the midsummer night.