home

__Troubadour__ Wiki!


Los Colores de Las Estaciones De Jen Lassen Las estaciones, Al igual que una pintura de acuarela, Con colores manchados por todas partes. Únicas, claras, hermosas, A continuación, mezclar unos con otros; Llevar un paisaje diferente, Arrojando luz diferente En nuestro entorno.

El año comienza con el invierno; Mordido, duro, sin embargo, en contraste, suave Con la caída de nieve blanca Y la presencia de hielo brillante y azul Vírgenes y mágicos Sin embargo, escozor y fría al tacto.

Calentador del mundo es, entonces, se presentó Cuando llega la primavera; Luz de oro, millones de flores Destacan entre la alfombra verde A nuestros pies. Diferentes matices, Pasteles y brillantes, Nos rodean. Suficiente para calentar nuestras almas y alimentar nuestros corazones.

Ah, pero entonces, llega el verano Y una vez más los ojos Se ajustan a las nuevas vistas. Visiones de la piel vuelta a marrón, El océano desconcertante azul-gris, La hierba brillante tono de verde Eso me parece la sonrisa de todo el calor. Amarillas luces de luciérnaga, paletas de color rojo Que gotea por la cara de un niño, Y el azul desteñido de pantalones cortos de mezclilla Todos indican las maravillas del verano.

Sin embargo, llegado Septiembre, Otoño encuentra su camino de regreso a nuestro campo de visión, Listo a presentar su pintura para todos nosotros. Las hojas de árboles se ahogan en las naranjas profundas, amarillas, rojas y marrones; Mirando hacia abajo, la hierba crujiente Y nuestros dedos de los pies cubiertos con zapatos, Caminamos por el aire fresco Y en la mezcla de colores Que se ha convertido en nuestro medio ambiente.

Una vez que la llama del otoño se quema, Los colores del derretimiento Como la cera de una vela En invierno, una vez más.

Ella saca Su paleta de colores especiales Y estos colores son salpicados por todo el mundo A medida que el ciclo se repite.

Los colores nunca se apagan; Más bien, usados y reciclados En un lío grande, hermoso Para el disfrute de todos.

Hey Troubadour! Here is my poem (I'll post it in English, but I have the Spanish version too if any of you are interested.) Let me know what you think! Thanks :) -Jen Lassen

The seasons, Like a watercolor painting, With colors smeared everywhere. Unique, obvious, beautiful, Then blending into one another; Bringing different scenery, Shedding different light On our surroundings.

The year begins with winter; Biting, harsh, yet contrastingly soft With the fall of white snow And presence of shimmering ice Pristine and magical Yet stinging and cold to the touch.

The world’s heater then is turned up When spring arrives; Golden light, millions of flowers Standing out amongst the green carpet At our feet. A ton of hues, Pastel and bright, Surround us. Enough to warm our souls and fuel our hearts.

Oh, but then, summer comes And once again our eyes Adjust to the new sights. Visions of skin turned brown, The perplexing blue-grey ocean, Grass the brightest shade of green That it seems to smile from all the warmth. Yellow firefly lights, red popsicles dripping down a child’s face, And the faded blue of denim shorts All indicate the wonders of summer.

Yet come September, Autumn finds its way back into our field of vision, Ready to present its painting to us all. The trees’ leaves are drowned in deep oranges, yellows, reds, and browns; Looking down, grass crunchy and fried, Our toes covered with shoes, We walk through the crisp air And into the mixture of colors That has become our environment.

Once fall’s flame burns out, The colors melt Like a candle’s wax Into winter once again.

He takes out his special color palette And these colors are splashed across the world As the cycle repeats.

Colors never fade; Rather, used and recycled Into one big, beautiful mess For all to enjoy.

*(I guess I'll just comment here) - I love the imagery and descriptions linked to each season! By far my favorite stanza was the metaphorical **candle**, with an flame (I imagined it to be orange like the leaves of autumn) and the melting wax (I saw it as being white like snow). It works great. Overall, you transition nicely from season to season, but I feel that the last three stanzas could be more coherent. . . . prehaps more smoothly transitioning from the **candle metaphor** into the **painting metaphor**, and combining the last two stanzas. Prehaps you may want to clarify "He" in the second to last stanza; it's an awesome idea to mention that a greater being is in control of the universe and is painting in our seasons for us, but I feel that it could make a greater impact on the reader if you clarified who "He" is or added more of a description (I understand th religous restrictions, but prehaps you could suggest him as a "cosmic creator" or something). I dig the anecdote at the end, but you may want to consider the connotation of the word "mess" and its usage as a closing statement. Maybe you could go for "collage" or "living painting" or anything artistic. Just athought. Great ideas!!!!! :D ~Ashley

_ Dear fellow members of Troubadour, Here's my colors story. On the long side, so any edits would be extremely helpful //Canitude-n..-Greyness;Whiteness// I stared out the window onto the busy New York streets. The mix of lights, sounds, and colors flooded my brain. A chorus of car horns echoed out in all directions. The chilling December air created a bustling atmosphere, causing people to pour out into the streets. They hurriedly ran like an ant colony from my skyscraper perspective. Billboards jutted out and hung down from the metal giants that surrounded my art firm. On this particular day, something was bothering me with the city scene; there was a lack of red. One would think that red, a fiery, passionate color, would be advertised in New York City just as much as the revealing women on provocative posters that lined the streets. Adam broke my concentration as he tapped me on the shoulder and said; “So, did you still want me to take a look at your rooster piece?” “Yeah, I do. Are you busy after work?” I said. “Nope, lets head back to my apartment after the place closes.” The clock struck four and we packed up our supplies and headed towards the subway station. We got out at fifth street and walked up to his apartment. “This is pretty good” Adam said. “You think so?” I said. It was at this point that he stared blankly at the painting in his hands. After a moment in reflection he looked at me and said: “Well, yeah. Except for the cone. You know, the thing on the top of his head. It looks kind of sloppy. Maybe use a different shade of red. I don’t like this one too much.” I grabbed the painting from him and looked towards the spot he pointed out. I had no idea what he was talking about. I couldn’t spot any red at all. “Oh yeah?” I said. “Yeah, I don’t know exactly which one. Here hold on, let me find a bottle of paint I got in my bag. It’s the only shade of red I ever use.” As he searched I just kept staring at the rooster. No red, how? “Here you go, it’s crimson. It’ll look great.” he said. I took the bottle of crimson from his hands. As I took it from him, I noticed it was black. “Wait, this is black, dude.” I said. “What are you talking about?” he said. “It’s black, you must have mixed up the labels on it or something.” He took out a blank canvas and poured some of the paint on it. “See? Crimson, I told you. What’re you colorblind or something?” he said with a chuckle to himself. Oddly enough, all I saw was black liquid, oozing like poison to my eyes. “No, I’m not colorblind. Look just give me the painting, I’ll sharpen it up a bit.” I said. “Okay, cool. Let me know if you want me to look at it after you’re finished. I need that Crimson back too.” He handed me my painting and the bottle, and I hurried out of his apartment. I walked out of the apartment complex and onto the busy New York streets hoping to find a shade of red somewhere. A cool chill stung my face as I walked down the streets and realized that people had to have rosy cheeks due to the cold. I ran up to one man and stared at his face for a few seconds. No rosy cheeks. “Do you mind?“ he said. Disappointed, I kept inspecting more passersby. Their caps, mittens, scarves, coats, had no hints of red. At this point I was in a light jog trying to search for the red, and came to an intersection where everyone had stopped. I looked at the traffic light and saw black in the top circle. I stood staring at the light wondering what to do. Finally it turned green. Stunned by the traffic light I stood in place. “What the hell are you doing buddy?! Move out of the way!” a man said on a bike as he swerved around me. I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening to me.

“So, you’re saying you cannot see red anymore?” the doctor said. “Yes, that’s it.” I said. “Have you always been colorblind?” “No, just recently.” “Okay… well lets run some tests.” He proceeded to take blood work and conduct color vision tests. I couldn’t spot the red anywhere. “What’s strange is you’ve lost the ability to see red today, for the first time. Protans, or people who have incorrect light sensitive pigments pertaining to the color red, are born without the ability to see red. I’ll study your blood work and call you back in” the doctor said. I nodded and walked out. I hailed a cab and made my way back to my apartment on 16th street. I locked the door behind me, inspected my lonely one bedroom living space. As I placed the keys on the kitchen table I couldn’t help but shudder at the silence. The place was just as empty and deserted as it was when I had left it. The deflated sense of loneliness caused me to jumped right onto my bed. “Maybe it’ll go away.” I said to myself as I pulled the comforter over my head. Suddenly, my senses become dull as I entered a dreamlike state. A girl came fully into focus. Her beauty kept me paralyzed in awe. Light snow fell on the tip of her red nose and rosy red cheeks as she stared into my eyes. She was wearing a dark red wool coat, red mittens, and a red cap. It looked magnificent. I had never had so much appreciation for the color before. Slowly, I went to embrace her and realized I was standing on ice. I clumsily slipped right on my face. Her playful giggle was the last thing I heard before I awoke. Lazily, I rolled over and looked out the window. A dark, black sky came into focus as I wiped the sands of sleep out of my eyelids. Then I turned my attention to the clock beside me; 10:51 AM. “I’m late, and it’s gonna rain cats and dogs. Wonderful.” I said to myself as I grabbed my raincoat and umbrella. Bolting out of my apartment, I rushed towards the subways and felt like I was being watched. As I passed a TV in the windows of a Radio Shack, I heard an odd weather report: “Well we can enjoy a unusual day of clear blue skies today folks! Highs in the 60s and a low of 45. Enjoy this clear day outside. Now back to you Bob.” the weatherman said. I stopped and looked up at the sky above me. Everything was colorless and dreary. It made no sense. I turned around and saw passersby staring at me. It seems as though I suffered from sore thumb syndrome in my heavy raincoat and umbrella while everyone else was dressed in light windbreakers. Then I gazed around the city and saw it with different eyes once again. Once magnificent glass sky scrapers that reflected a clear blue sky now depicted thick, dreary clouds of black. The once magnificent city took on a darker shade like a room with dimmed lights. At this moment, my phone began to vibrate. It was the eye doctor’s office. “Hello, Tristan, have a minute?” the doctor said. “Surely.” “Your tests for anomalous trachoma, or a difficulty in seeing certain colors, came back negative. You are not a protan, at least in the medical sense. I cannot help you any further at this point, but maybe a colleague of mine can.” “All right, thanks doctor.” He gave me the information of a psychiatrist, and added: “Tristan, your case is an odd one indeed. I know that as an artist, the ability to see color is extremely important. Best of luck with correcting the issue.” With that, he hung up. I stood next to the radio shack feeling lost. I wandered through the train station looking around me, seeing images with missing pieces. At the office, I stared at an empty canvas without a clue. I dipped a paintbrush in a blue paint labeled can and made a stroke on the canvas. A long black line separated my canvas in two. The departure of blue made trying to paint feel like I was stalling to remember what I was trying to say in the middle of a conversation. My mind danced around the answer but couldn’t bring it into focus. Frustrated, I felt the urge to turn my self off and go to sleep. Instantly, I felt the cold ice on my back as I stared up into her beautiful blue irises. The pureness of her being made my body tingle from head to foot. She dangled her blue scarf in my face and said “Come on silly! Get up! It’s time to skate!” I grabbed her hand and as she pulled me up. As my face met hers I awoke suddenly at the office. The editor slapped my face to wake me up. “Oh, I’m sorry sir. I guess I just nodded off.” I said. “Showing up late, and sleeping on the job Tristan? We have pieces that need to be submitted.” “I’m aware of that, but-” “But nothing, Tristan. Go home, get some sleep, and be ready to work tomorrow.” I grabbed my supplies and headed out of the building. Upon arriving home, I spotted a hairbrush at the sink of my bathroom. After a few seconds, I realized it was hers. It was Alyssa, my ex-girlfriend’s hairbrush. She must have left it in the rush of moving out. What was odd was that her hair was blonde, and the hairs in this brush were black. I was losing yellow. The darkness started to suffocate me and helplessness followed. The darkened room started to spin. I felt like I was on a computer chair, endlessly spinning round and round. My stomach dropped and made me feel queasy. Like a sinking ship I fell hard into an abyss of sleep. The first thing I saw was her. Alyssa was staring into my face, smiling from ear to ear. The platinum blonde hair hung down her shoulders and twirled around her neck. She put her hand on my face and leaned in close. I closed my eyes and puckered my lips, but felt nothing for a few seconds. I opened my eyes to see her say “I’m sorry.” It was at this moment, it all came back. She started to walk away and I sat down on the ice, cold and defeated. All the beauty contrasted the darkness in my heart. I just kept staring at her walking away, trying not to cry as she walked past the young couples who were enveloped in love. Each step she took seemed to blot out more, and more color in the dream world. As I got up and started to run towards her, the snow and tears intensified and smothered my face. The harder I ran, the farther away she got. My legs felt as though they were moving too fast for me to control. Not only the colors, but the people around me began to fade away. Her silhouette became the only thing in sight. Once she seemed too far away to catch all the ice rose up and encased me in a ice like caccoon. In this ice shield, everything was completely grayed. I kept smashing the layer of ice between me and her but to no avail. With every punch she seemed to move even farther and farther away. The constant vanishing point in my sights was a small crack of ice that led to the outside world. My skin became numb to the biting ice water, keeping me detached from even the sensation of pain. Alone, I sank down to my knees in the icy casing. The only things I had left were the desire to have her, and the realization that I never could. “And that, doctor, is the dream I have every, single, night.”

~John Wrubel

~Ashley
 * (A not-so-much-of-a-commenting comment) - I would love to read it, but it's not a microsoft word document, or the link just hates me . . . . sorry, but my computer is keeping your writing all to itself and refuses to share! :(

_ _

Heya! So, if you seek to lose your sanity, or just want to read some stuff, here's some //things//. . . . PLEASE COMMENT





I was also thinking about my 55-word story as a possible submission:

"Paint" I sit, a viscous mass, waiting reluctantly to taint the // white purity //with my footprints. Then, sliding between plastic bristles, my fated journey begins. Stroke. Strike. // No! // So much begrimed behind my boldly blazed path, leaving more and more vivid scars! But then the brush pulls away, and I realize what I have become. Art. [tilda] Ashley Walter
 * Thanks to the people who helped me edit so far; I took you up on some of your advice. :)**
 * And please don't try to create art by killing people. :D

Hey guys! So here's my colors piece. If you have any suggestions at all, please tell me! I'm open to all comments. -Sussan Saikali

~Ashley -Sussan
 * (I'll just comment here, too, I guess) - I **LOVE** THE NOSE METAPHOR!!!!!!!!! That's the best thing that I take away from this peice, by far, and the link you made to the "nose of the world": it just clarifies its steepness. Awesome. I also feel that in some sections of your piece, the truth (as the philisophy of the man) becomes obscured by othe mentionings of other facts, such as that the man was always denied, so it was a bit confusing. My suggestion is that you indicate the man's philosophy by mentioning his truth as "**Truth**" (with a capital "T"). This will make it stand out, personify it like a great being in itself, and make your writing more memorable. May I also suggest a change to your title? Maybe "The Dark Nose of Truth" (as the letters on the page are written in black, and the disbeleivers are 'dark' in their indifference), or prehaps something that concerns the fact that the philosopher can see the Truth as clear as **black** and **white**, while the disbeleivers see only smudgy grey. Or that could be the **art** conponent paired with your writing . . . . I'm losing my mind . . . . but great job!
 * aw, thanks ashley! yeah, i wasn't sure if it was confusing or not, so thanks! i'll try and clear it up a bit like you suggested (with the "Truth" and all) and then maybe you could read it again and see if it's better? As for the title, I wanted to change it but wasn't sure to what. I'm playing around with a few different one's right now, and I'll consider yours too. Thanks again for the help!

My Piece:

Ryan Bonner Red Shell I visited Aunt Jacquie’s vacant house with my parents to hollow it out for whoever would live in it next. The pictures of lighthouses and English Royalty still peppered the walls, and the scent of musty antiques was fighting to take over the smell of my clothes, just as it always had. Her former bird’s cage cornered the living room with a grim picture of him placed inside. The house had a stillness I had never felt before. “Here, take a bag,” my dad said to me, “put anything in here you think can be donated.” He left the living room for me and escaped to the basement with a bag of his own. My mom took the upstairs. It had been three weeks since Aunt Jacquie died, three weeks since she went to sleep and finally decided not leave the oneiric landscape of her dreams. Even though I knew she wasn’t there, I could see her in all of the pictures of Princess Diana and Nantucket that plastered the walls, the glass bowl of diabetic lollipops on the side table next to her lettuce-colored rocking chair, and the dunes of books that spilled out all over the oak floor (peeks of tissues coming out of the pages as makeshift bookmarks). She was eccentric; that person you meet only once in your lifetime, or that movie character you see only on screen. At seventy-five, she never had her ears pierced, but had hundreds of pairs of exorbitant and colorful clip-on’s to match every one of her outfits. In all of her idiosyncrasies, though, I remember her most for her red pea coat. A coat she wore everyday. A heavy, satin-lined jacket of a glaring, cherry-red color that never left her hunching back, not even in the most bristling hot weather, followed her to every family outing, sports game, and graduation, sealed her in with three gaudy plastic buttons to keep her personality spilling out all over the floor, and was never worn by anyone except her. I heard my dad coming upstairs and became frantic to make myself look busy. There was a lot of paper strewn on the tables and floors, some letters and envelopes, piling books, but mostly blank paper, so I shoved some in my deflated and empty bag. Equipped with plastic gloves, my dad tied his garbage bag and grabbed another one from the kitchen. “How’s everything going?” he asked. “Fine,” I said, “gettin’ a lot of stuff.” I put some more paper in the bag and took it to the corner of the room. I came across Aunt Jacquie’s pea-coat, glowing bright red in the sunlight that streamed through the shaded windows. It was hung up on a coat rack next to Bill’s cage. I lifted up a sleeve and plopped it back down, sending whirls of dust off dancing into the natural light from the window, and stood with a reel of memories fulminating through my head. “Wow, I can’t believe that thing looks as good as it does,” my dad said, leaning against the door frame in the living room. “That’s gonna make someone else real happy.” He left for the basement again with another bag in his hand. “Where do you want trash?” I called down to my dad. “Kitchen. There‘s a can in there,” he said. I came to the pea coat, unhooked it, folded it, and carried it with me. My bag still a hollow shell lined with crumpled up paper and ragged books, I drug it took the kitchen and threw it next to the trash can. All I heard was a clang, and all I felt was the knowledge that Aunt Jacquie’s pea coat would have a better life in a heap than on a body where it would fade into a dull, lifeless red. Still a work in progress, but I would love comments!

(still the only person commenting . . . ) I thoroughly enjoyed the details and imagery in your piece! You sculpt such a unique environment in your story, and the special attention you paid to details and lively verb choices don’t go unmissed. It’s convincing, just as it’s depicted in a memorable way. I love the link you made from the swirling dust to reeling memories - the physical/mental parallelism is great. Also, the role of the father creating a subtle man vs. man conflict situation gives more weight to the narrator’s decision to toss the coat. But I’m still flummoxed about the content of the last paragraph, and I feel that I need more evidence that the coat resides in the trash and not in the bag. Plus, perhaps you could hint a bit more at the emotional atmosphere, but try not to make it cliché “depression”. (Maybe you could tie some intense feelings to the narrator’s action of throwing out the coat.) Overall, I love the theme and the way you approached the nature of the coat’s color, and the concept of the whole “hollowness” of the house and donation bag. (Perhaps you could mention the hollowness in the narrator regarding her death as a way to incorporate more pathos – draw out that motif you have going). I like how you mention the function of the buttons as a way of preventing her personality from spreading out over the floor, and everything changes in her absence. Nice job, and nice usage of “the word of the day”. ~Ashley

Ryan Bonner: Final Copy of Hollow Red The other day, I visited Aunt Jacquie’s vacant house with my parents to clear it out for whoever would live in it next. The pictures of lighthouses and English Royalty still peppered the walls, and the scent of musty antiques fought to take over the smell of my clothes, just as it always had. Her former bird’s cage cornered the living room with a grim picture of him placed inside. The house had a stillness I had never felt before. “Here, take a bag,” my dad said to me, “put anything in here you think can be donated.” He took a crumpled black trash bag of his own and fled to the basement. My mom took the upstairs. It had been three weeks since Aunt Jacquie died, three weeks since she went to sleep and decided that the oneiric landscape of her dreams was better than reality. Even though I knew she wasn’t there, I could see her in all of the pictures of Princess Diana and Nantucket that plastered the walls, the glass bowl of diabetic lollipops on the side table next to her lettuce-colored rocking chair, and the dunes of books that spilled out all over the wizened oak floor (peeks of tissues coming out of the pages as makeshift bookmarks). She was eccentric; that person you meet only once in your lifetime or that movie character you see only on screen. At seventy-five, she never had her ears pierced, but had hundreds of pairs of exorbitant and colorful clip-on’s to match every one of her outfits. In all of her idiosyncrasies, though, I remember her most for her red pea coat: A coat she wore every day. A heavy, satin-lined jacket of a glaring, cherry-red color that never left her hunching back, not even in the most bristling hot weather, followed her to every family outing, sports game, and graduation, sealed her in with three gaudy plastic buttons to keep her personality from spilling out all over the floor, and was never worn by anyone except her. I heard my dad coming upstairs and became frantic to make myself look busy. There was a lot of paper strewn on the tables and floors, some letters and envelopes, piling books, but mostly blank paper, so I shoved some of the detritus in my deflated and empty bag. Equipped with plastic gloves, my dad tied his garbage bag and grabbed another one from the kitchen. “How’s everything going?” he asked. “Fine,” I said, “gettin’ a lot of stuff.” “Good,” he said, “You won’t even recognize the basement when I’m through with it.” Putting some more paper in the bag, I ambled to the corner of the room. I came across Aunt Jacquie’s pea-coat, glowing bright red in the sunlight that streamed through the shaded windows, hung up on a wooden coat rack next to Bill’s cage. I lifted up a sleeve and plopped it back down, sending whirls of dust off dancing into the natural light from the window, and stood with a reel of memories fulminating through my head. “Wow, I can’t believe that thing looks as good as it does,” my dad said, leaning against the door frame in the living room. “That’s gonna make someone else real happy.” With an eager stroll he escaped back downstairs. “Where do you want the trash?” I called down to my dad. “Kitchen. There‘s a can in there,” he said. I took the pea coat in my hand, unhooked it, folded it, and carried it under my armpit. Still a hollow shell lined with crumpled up paper and ragged books, my bag drug behind me to the kitchen until I tied it and threw it next to the trash can. Removing the coat from under my arm, I again stood staring at it and imagining my Aunt Jacquie bundled inside. My foot stepped on the peddle of the trash can, and in a split second my hands were empty. All I heard was a clang, and all I felt was the knowledge that Aunt Jacquie’s pea coat would have a better life in a heap of garbage than on a body where its red color would inevitably fade; lifeless, hollow.

Ummm yeah. I'm sorry for not really pulling my share here; I just can't seem to write anything I'm satisfied with. But here's what I've got so far. I probably need to completely overhaul it though, since it really doesn't have the rhythm I want. Or any rhythm at all, actually. >.<

white white white hard teeth still wet with bittter brown-bagged water, thin lips loose and smiling easy at the careless, eager lens flashing white white white mashed potatoes splattered on the cieling fan but mommy smiles, better that than on her new uniform- this one without a stain, completely white white white silent square with its normal admonition watch the needle watch the road, man is this all your car can do? the sidewalk flashes by, completely white white white wrapping paper, shining gold bow hugging close, do you want to come with mama? come on, let's go get Ann's cake won't she be surprised? she didn't want a party this year... do you know what color cakes are? ha-ha yes, that's right. The icing's white white white iPod's hurling sweaty downbeats into the April wind, the spring leaves laughing and shaking it all back down, to hiss under the dampening tires, the snow dying slowly on either side is grey and white white white the game should be almost over, when I was her age, they ended at ten! watch your fingers, bunny. here we go. let me strap you in. what color is your carseat? Good girl, it's white white white two cars gliding closer, closer, and the birthday girl doesn't see her mother's eyes, gliding closer, closer, until surprise white white black

1298513288129851328812985132881298513288 It's Ashley again with a last-minute post!!!!! (And just in the moment as winter is about to flee from us)

Ashley Walter 23 February 2011

amber december Beneath the blanket of the cold midnight sky Alone, in the dark inky warmth of her bedroom, Fatigue was taking her by degrees under her eyes But she saw it, her moment of winter serenities.

Sitting on her bed and crossing her legs Surrounding her, the walls breathed blackness, So she ever so slowly let the shade ascend And there’s a window, a barricaded portal to transcend.

She stares at the picture on that dark wall ever so At the drawing, given life on sepia-colored paper, White pencil-strokes delineating each intricate bough The shadows so soft, blending into the snow.

Leaning in towards the square where the outside seeped in Radiating through the glass, it stroked her cheeks, And the window serves to frame the scene Of the world, of the cold, of her dreams.

She studied the window and breathed out a sign Then in a glimpse, she caught sight of his face, December’s swarthy yet snowy complexion so fine So beyond the glass, he swiftly seized her mind.

He brought her through the portal beyond She did not speak, nor feel the need to breathe, The whole neighborhood made not a sound Her lungs motionless, still as the frosted earth all around.

Her mind permeated that image of art The forms of trees, fences and neighbors’ houses, Then December tugged at her consciousness to interrupt He whispered, so softly in her ear, to inhale and //look up.//

Clouds of deep apple cider hovered so low Tilting back her head, she drank in the heavens, The colors danced on her senses and tasted so good And glowed warmly, like the richness of young wood.

So entire and intense was the single-toned overcast Tinting the snow, how bright for a night! It clung to the atmosphere like a coating of wax An ochre dome; the world’s vast cozy cap.

Confined to this little corner in this little space The stars were hidden; the cosmos could not be seen, The universe only knew of a little fairytale place Of gingerbread houses, sugar-powdered branches, and icing cakes.

With the falling of her eyelids she retained those forms Of the portal, the sky, the fantasyland and December’s swarthy face, Who stole her heart in the echo of a sepia snow storm And, despite his coldness, filled her with inner warmth.

In the years that followed that frigid December Looking out, kissed by the night through a window, And when ruminating back she would come to remember Within her soul, that very winter preserved in amber.