Seasons

The seasons of my childhood
are remembered as distinct points in time.

Fall began early,
with new school clothes
(the only time of the year that we were allowed such a luxury),
and the bags of school supplies.
I was a school nerd.
I loved the smell of books and paper and pencils.
(Nothing has changed.)
Morning walks punctuated
with the crisp snap of thin ice
as we made our way gingerly over partially frozen puddles.
Water below, a skin of ice above.
What child could resist?

Winter was about snow....
that Northern Ontario snow
that packs perfectly for snowmen and snowcaves....
Caverns of ice between towering snowbanks,
a huddled refuge....
Blizzards that covered the naked world
in white lace petticoats...
playing indoor games --
Monopoly, Clue, Scrabble --
as icy gales whistled around the eaves.

Spring came with a scent.
Can you smell spring coming?
Crisp, clear, clean, new....
the snow retreats, melts, vanishes,
and the world comes to life.
Dust off the bikes and the roller skates,
put away the parkas till next year,
drag Dad to the park with a kite,
feel the wind on your face.

Summer brought camping and swimming,
picnics and berry-picking,
a hotness that dripped from your skin,
afternoons in the country.
Days of building tree forts,
chasing away intruders (boys!),
lying on our bellies in the field,
giggling when the grass tickled our arms,
reading Archie comics and slurping popsicles.

The rhythm of the seasons....
Somehow it was so much more clearly defined
as a child.

DLD/19JUL07