Preface

There is simplistic beauty in the four seasons. Encapsulating them only through four of the five senses is a challenge thought up randomly. In the midst of all that goes on in the world, I wanted to write something not pertaining to the craziness of life. This is all about losing four senses through the seasons.

1. The sky is hashed through with the warmest colors swirled with cloud-strokes, candy-floss fine, and illuminating the edges of rooftops. In autumn, the sun sets with a reverb, ripples of the warmth exuding through stucco, sucked away as the moon bruises her way into the spotlight of the sky. Leaves catch the last light, rustling through emptying streets and catching on building creases. Somehow, the air always smells of apples and fires, colors that squish themselves into the fast-fading sun.

2. It's damp. Snow secludes itself into the storm drains, dripping down gutters, slowly expanding. It’s wet slap when thrown against itself echoes dully. Somewhere, the support system of a snow pile melts, a subtle drop, silence ensues. Nature’s earmuff, feeding the ever cold feeling ensnaring even the tightly wrapped pedestrian. Salt tinkles behind a congested truck, slush parts for the humming vehicles. Hat-clad children rush in and out in ten-minute intervals. More flakes fall from the sky, impeding the snow removers. Limbs slowly freeze to icicles, numbness taking over porcupine pricks of exposed skin.

3. The heat blooms over dew-covered streets. The slumber shakes off of the few who venture out early. Slowly, layers have been lost, wools put away, sleds placed back into the depths of basements. Spring brings the birds. Their song drifts through cracked windows; ears perk as nature harmonizes with itself. Umbrellas flick open to block sun showers, the droplets collecting on their canvas finish, sliding lethargically off. Boots slap the sidewalk as the early-birds tromp through the streets, stomping over puddles with purpose.

4. Heat blazes over the pavement, slow-roasting those outside, melting on their front porches. Mirage pools of water draw curious children. Few wear no shoes, their tough heels rising heat-white blisters. Sweat falls through pores, splattering on the ground before being evaporated back into the sky. Skin starts to crisp, harsh fire tracing over exposed shoulder blades. Tans will eventually replace the marks, but first, they must shed like snakeskin. Summer warrants fewer clothes and more adventures, more outcomes of itchy ivy. More calamine applications, more fingernails scratching away the toxins.