A Dream Called September

I dreamed a dream called September

The air always cool, the sun always warm

Every sense stimulated and alive

Wind on your face, wisps of clouds in the sky, air so crisp you can almost smell the snow in it 3 months away

I dreamed a dream called September

Full of friends laughter and hot apple cider

Porches and bonfires and children bundled in scarves

Always with warmth, color, and life

I dreamed a dream called September

A perpetual Indian summer where the leaves are forever red and gold

And love bloomed like flowers on the vine patiently awaiting the day their fruit would ripen for the harvest

And friends would gather it in celebration and all would dance and cheer

But the harvest time never came

Instead a bitter north wind blew across the ground

An icy sleet broke into my dream and I awoke to find myself in a living nightmare

Where the flowers had long since withered and dried

The leaves brittle and brown, lying in heaps, obstructing the path

The fruit I thought was yet to ripen had rotted and dropped off the vine

The seeds scattered and stolen with no hope of replanting

The winter was harsh and long

The relentless winds blowing away any evidence of life or love

The world a barren and desolate wasteland

It was hard to believe anything had ever grown here

But eventually the thaw had to come

So slowly it was nigh imperceptible

I still remember the day the first crocus appeared

Surrounded by ice, it grew

Bravely proclaimed that someday spring would come

And it did

A beautiful spring

Not for its extravagance, for as far as springtime's go, this one was sparse

But because it meant the winter was over and there was still breath in my lungs

Gradually the grass greened, the rains fell, the birds sang, if still a little hesitant

And life began to happen again

But spring then turned to summer, as it has a way of doing, and the heat of the sun has taken it's toll

The ground has dried and the rains have stopped and life wavers before my eyes like a mirage

I lay parched in this drought

Too weak to move in any direction but forward, for I know nowhere else to go

But moving forward means I'm still living and still moving

And though I long to just sleep, I know that can never happen again

If I sleep I die

No mater how much I miss my dream, it's the waking that will kill me

In the dance of the seasons, autumn follows summer

I have to believe that September will come again, and that when it does

It will be for real.