Cocktail Hour

Winter's early evening breeze feels and smells the same now, as when sixteen, except less promising because more consoling, contenting rather than regenerating contentious breath of future hopes and dreams, knowing we conspire somehow, Earth and I, because I feel richer to love this way, than to breathe evening's winter still, alone. I am less sure this was not my last daylight in this operatic, yet ridiculously distracted, lifetime landscape of sensory memory. When I was sixteen, my understory was more of a musical-comedy landscape that would remain forever Peter Pan young, virginal, well...hopefully not that. Such confidence of seeing yet another and another, apparently endless, pink dawn, turning yellow, introducing blue hemisphere, framed by green Earth's polycultural grasses and monocultural asses, which, at sixteen, I found more amusing than patience perdures into sixtyfour. Winter's now later evening silence remembering sixteen and sixtyfour together over vodka-laced pomegranate.