Seasons

When younger, snow meant scarves, pink cheeks, and the promise of sweets as soon as I returned home; hot chocolate never tasted as rich as it did in warm, quiet safety. Fall meant bright colors and fairy boats, leaves floating in sidewalk puddles and dancing through mounds of thin gold; trees never seemed so full as when they shed their coats. Things made sense in how they didn’t; only now I realize that the more answers I receive the more questions I ask, until hot chocolate is bland and empty trees are nothing but captives, the footless forced to dance.