By: EarlB, 2:01 AM GMT on November 26, 2008
As the party lights dim, as the well-dressed guests fly home, the
green of summer is forgotten in the brown light. The end isn't near,
it's here, it's time for farewells.
Autumn is the year's last party. At last you see the true dress
of the party goers. They slip out of their formal emerald smocks so
that the gold, the crimson, the orange that were their underclothes,
which only peeked modestly, now are worn solely, openly, in all of their
beauty and bawdiness.
I was told that Liberians say that "good-bye is a little death",
and I think we can easily see the truth in that, whether it be friend,
fortune or season we say good-bye to. So, good-bye my dear friend, Autumn,
I know that this is only farewell, but i feel a "little death" in me,
I know that I will never be quite the same again, never quite so whole.
Updated: 2:08 AM GMT on November 26, 2008
By: EarlB, 2:12 PM GMT on November 07, 2008
I wish I had the words to describe
the quiet of a sunrise,
the softness of rain on my arms,
the fascination of a child with her first flower,
the liquid silver of morning dew on the grass,
the loneliness of a train whistle at night,
the beauty of frost flowers on cold windows,
the fragrance of a long-lost kitchen,
the love of the woman standing in that kitchen,
the emptiness I feel when I think of her.
I wish I knew how friendship becomes love,
why leaving hurts so,
where I am to turn next,
what life's journey leads to,
and when I will find the words and know the answers.