The chill on my tensed knuckles driving in this morning, the low September fog, and Coldplay with violins put me in a deep melancholy.
Each September, Colorado sends out a warning blast of cold, reminding you she's still in charge and your time of yellow skies and blue nights is coming to an end. Her chill is an icy finger slap to the face, reminding you of lost high school pep rallies, knee socks, and displaced dreams.
So since my friend Chris Martin conspired with Nature this morning against summer sunflowers and cheer, I'm going to have to ride out the storm with him. He's fuel, but also good medicine, for the melancholy soul.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?