The Quarter-Mile to the Bus Stop

Walking in summer

is swimming,

legs cutting strokes

through mid-afternoon heat and humidity.

Dappled shade on the sidewalk

an oasis for neighborhood cats

and my shoulders.

Looking at the apple

hanging low in the sky

through rose-tinted glasses.

Slogging exhaustion of the last few weeks of school,

coupled with the buzzing excitement of school soon to be a thing of the near past.

 

Walking in autumn

is a concerto of life and death.

Fallen leaves form crunchy pathways

past barbeques waving

smoke and neighbor’s hands

in my direction.

Frisbees glide on the crisp breeze

scooping leaves into the sky

and pushing them past the baby-pink clouds,

on towards November.

Cool air in my lungs travels upward, refreshing my mind;

a ready new mindset for the year ahead.

 

Walking in winter

is a still-life in black and white.

Air cold and still,

frozen branches barely quaking

in the nearly nonexistent wind.

Puffs of white breath

and echoing footsteps on abandoned asphalt.

Bright edges and harsh lines.

Frost encases the scene,

casting a shimmer over khaki grass and barren trees.

Heavy damp chill takes residence in my lungs

and drags me down like the oncoming snowfall.

 

Walking in spring

is fresh air stretching my chest.

Flower-buds shedding winter coats;

heathered snowdrops cast to the ground

to form glass puddles.

Rose-tinted glasses aren’t needed—

pinks reflect greens reflect yellows.

A watercolor to remind us

of soft and kind,

gentle and new.

A smile lingers on my lips as if to reflect the petals

blossoming on the trees like the freedom in my chest.

 

This poem is about: 
My community

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