the semi-florescent tone of my skin is a two-fold reminder that the cold of winter is packing it’s bags for the season. my legs are bare for the first time in months, virtually hungry for the sun as a bear breaks its fast after hibernation. my capris are rolled loosely above my knees, in hopes of this late evening sun will leave a little bit behind on my calves. the warmth is welcomed, and familiar; forgetting that it was a whole season ago since my toes felt the soft grass beneath them. as i look down, i see the white scars, left behind from the itch of dry, winter air. unintentional, yet self-inflicted wounds; made in a haste of trying nothing more than to soothe the irritation.
the itch is not the source of the problem; dry skin was. how often are the marks and scars in our lives an attempt to treat a symptom? rather than treating the source, we scratch and scratch at a treatment for only what itches us. how much more often are those wounds self-inflicted in vain?
i don’t really know what i’m getting at, and i’m not trying to be all double-entendre. just making observations.
i’m glad this is the start of a new season. a season in which white wounds of the past are healed over and shined up by the glow that sunshine and new seasons leave upon everything it touches. i welcome the warmth and let it complete soak every inch of skin. i roll down the cuffs of my pants, and put my cardigan back on. because even as today’s sun curtsies behind the treetops, the cool breeze reminds me that its not quite summer, yet.
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