Until Then, You're Waiting for Someone to Love
©Rachel C
The weather is changing, back and forth. Yesterday it was warm enough to throw on a light jacket and take the dog for a walk. Today, when I stepped outside, I anticipated the cold was due to the pre-sunrise darkness, but the chill lasted all day. Now as I run outside, my feet frozen from the cold, January moisture left like heavy dew on the grass, I can’t help but pray that days like this will last and last.
I remember once writing a poem about this weather. Actually, I think that is a bit of an understatement—I think I have written several poems about this weather. The chill, the way my breath hangs in the air, how the moon takes a pure-as-milk color and the star’s dazzle closer than I can remember seeing them. There is so much to explain, to describe; so much that I find enchanting each time I step out into the January night.
Tonight the sound of wind chimes rustle in the close distance, a weary wind nudging at them in an eerie way. Honestly, I love it. That distant discomfort, that something might be lurking in the unknown shadows; the idea thrills me, makes me smile, even though I know if I were to stumble upon some mysterious cause deep in the night I would be frightened half-to-death. Maybe that idea, in itself, is alluring. Terrified to no means by something I can’t explain. It certainly is, in itself, frightening. But, nevertheless, the sound of distant wind chimes in the wake of a chilled and subtle gust makes me ponder the possibilities, and all the ways to describe the feeling.
I guess it’s a simple explanation to why so much of my poetry revolves around the month of January and the cold that hangs in the air throughout the month—lighter than the depressed chills of February, ghostlier than the joyous snows of December. I have said, since I was fifteen—and very important year—that the twenty-sixth of January is my favorite day. And, to be less than eloquent, I don’t know exactly how I came to that conclusion. I think it all started with how lovely I believed the name sounded, as a title or a phrase. I think, at one point, I wrote a journal entry titled just that, because I couldn’t find something sarcastic to say in lieu of the day. And, though that does indeed still ring true—I would give anything I could find to deem worthy enough that very name—I think, mostly for me, it traces back to a moment in time, driving in a heavy snowfall, watching it billow down over the lane as rose petals would in the Spring. Nearly floating on air, passing between the trees, drifting across the road in a heavenly fashion. It truly was something I can never completely explain, something I will remember forever. Something I am certain will be penned over and over.
I wish, on days like this, when I can stand on the porch and see the stars for miles, that I could show them to you, or that you could have seen the snow stop as we passed by a tree and blow through the branches like rays of sunlight. I wish you could see things the way I see them, the way I smile at the strangest moments, and find humor in the most absurd things. Not because I want you to be like me, or to impress me, or even to predict me. Because I want for you to get me. I want for you to see beyond what’s been said and how I seemed. And I want for you to truly understand the person inside of me. The person who laughs at very silly things; the person who finds irony in the smallest corners; the person who notices details from across the room—and then feels ridiculous that no one understands the humor that she’s pointed out. I think that there is something beyond my layers of skin, my hard-to-read expressions, my knack for incongruity. And, I suppose, I think that you should notice, I think that you should find those things so very enchanting. And most of all, I want for you to see me, for all my imperfections; and see me smile at the memory of a snow drift that gave comfort in a very desolate year; and, say so very simply to yourself: she’s perfect, I love her, for everything she is. January 26 passed by this year without any conviction. Just another day in another year I’m determined to overcome. And yet every time I hear the date my heart skips a beat, I lose a breath, and I am reminded of wind chimes eerily in the distance, clouds of released air floating in the atmosphere, and a milky veil shrouding the silky moon. I am reminded of moments that allow me to smile while no one is looking, all the while I am thinking in my head: I wish someone could see me this way.
January 27, 2007
Author's Note: it's all just one giant narrative, isn't it?
The weather is changing, back and forth. Yesterday it was warm enough to throw on a light jacket and take the dog for a walk. Today, when I stepped outside, I anticipated the cold was due to the pre-sunrise darkness, but the chill lasted all day. Now as I run outside, my feet frozen from the cold, January moisture left like heavy dew on the grass, I can’t help but pray that days like this will last and last.
I remember once writing a poem about this weather. Actually, I think that is a bit of an understatement—I think I have written several poems about this weather. The chill, the way my breath hangs in the air, how the moon takes a pure-as-milk color and the star’s dazzle closer than I can remember seeing them. There is so much to explain, to describe; so much that I find enchanting each time I step out into the January night.
Tonight the sound of wind chimes rustle in the close distance, a weary wind nudging at them in an eerie way. Honestly, I love it. That distant discomfort, that something might be lurking in the unknown shadows; the idea thrills me, makes me smile, even though I know if I were to stumble upon some mysterious cause deep in the night I would be frightened half-to-death. Maybe that idea, in itself, is alluring. Terrified to no means by something I can’t explain. It certainly is, in itself, frightening. But, nevertheless, the sound of distant wind chimes in the wake of a chilled and subtle gust makes me ponder the possibilities, and all the ways to describe the feeling.
I guess it’s a simple explanation to why so much of my poetry revolves around the month of January and the cold that hangs in the air throughout the month—lighter than the depressed chills of February, ghostlier than the joyous snows of December. I have said, since I was fifteen—and very important year—that the twenty-sixth of January is my favorite day. And, to be less than eloquent, I don’t know exactly how I came to that conclusion. I think it all started with how lovely I believed the name sounded, as a title or a phrase. I think, at one point, I wrote a journal entry titled just that, because I couldn’t find something sarcastic to say in lieu of the day. And, though that does indeed still ring true—I would give anything I could find to deem worthy enough that very name—I think, mostly for me, it traces back to a moment in time, driving in a heavy snowfall, watching it billow down over the lane as rose petals would in the Spring. Nearly floating on air, passing between the trees, drifting across the road in a heavenly fashion. It truly was something I can never completely explain, something I will remember forever. Something I am certain will be penned over and over.
I wish, on days like this, when I can stand on the porch and see the stars for miles, that I could show them to you, or that you could have seen the snow stop as we passed by a tree and blow through the branches like rays of sunlight. I wish you could see things the way I see them, the way I smile at the strangest moments, and find humor in the most absurd things. Not because I want you to be like me, or to impress me, or even to predict me. Because I want for you to get me. I want for you to see beyond what’s been said and how I seemed. And I want for you to truly understand the person inside of me. The person who laughs at very silly things; the person who finds irony in the smallest corners; the person who notices details from across the room—and then feels ridiculous that no one understands the humor that she’s pointed out. I think that there is something beyond my layers of skin, my hard-to-read expressions, my knack for incongruity. And, I suppose, I think that you should notice, I think that you should find those things so very enchanting. And most of all, I want for you to see me, for all my imperfections; and see me smile at the memory of a snow drift that gave comfort in a very desolate year; and, say so very simply to yourself: she’s perfect, I love her, for everything she is. January 26 passed by this year without any conviction. Just another day in another year I’m determined to overcome. And yet every time I hear the date my heart skips a beat, I lose a breath, and I am reminded of wind chimes eerily in the distance, clouds of released air floating in the atmosphere, and a milky veil shrouding the silky moon. I am reminded of moments that allow me to smile while no one is looking, all the while I am thinking in my head: I wish someone could see me this way.
January 27, 2007
Author's Note: it's all just one giant narrative, isn't it?
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