a cold season

the fabric of my clothing scratches more at my skin and, when i bend over, there are small pains in the skin of my back. needles pricking and scratching away as the skin stretches painfully, dryly. i smile and my face stings and stretches tight over my cheek bones, across my forehead, and just under my bottom lip. i can't escape the sunny fall days that frustrate me with their too hot sunlight on my head and right side while the cold wind keeps me from shedding one of my thick and cumbersome layers. the warm weight of my extra blankets is comforting, until i wrap myself up and flail in a panic to escape the smothering embrace. i like looking out of windows in the fall, though. or driving in a car. then it's not too hot and i'm not shivering, but i get to enjoy the amber, garnet and lemon colors in the trees. i stare as far out as possible in the ice-clear air, trying to find the last horizon. or i walk through the woods and put my hands in the ice-cold stream, letting the water numb my fingertips. those are the good parts of the cold. not the maddening static cling of my hair to my neck, or how frustratingly dry everything is. if it isnt unbearably dry, it's cold from the damp. i have my guitar now. i have the comforting, crackling fire sound and smell of a hearth in the soft, deep chords at my fingertips; no longer numb from the winter, theyre warm from playing the strings, lengthening them and shortening them on the metal frets. the silver-wrapped silk digs into my fingers, but i don't notice, because i am focused on the harmonious reverberations and soft lullabye of an instrument much older than i; an instrument that sang me to sleep so many times, a humble accompaniment to the gentle tenor of my father's voice. this is the cold season.