Youth Floats On, Floats On By - - Stanhope Road

Shouts of triumph and defeat echo from the fields day in and day out. Drivers continue learning in that same cracked parking lot, living proof that history repeats itself; different shaking 16-year-olds, same bumped curbs and too-hasty turns. And Youth floats on, floats on by. The sun sets another day, and the world is casted in the most vibrant oranges and purples from the Matron’s final brushstrokes. The Crone assumes control now. With a wave of her gnarled hand, leaves skitter across snow-dusted earth against a background of gray and dying light. And I drive slowly, soaking in sights I’ve dismissed a thousand times over. I’m guided by memories of times once passed overlayed across my sight, and through them I view the old roads I used to speed down with little regard for life and its gifts. The asphalt I know is further worn, further whitened by Winter’s reverent graze. I am not who I was when I last traversed Stanhope Road. I am older, wiser, my eyes no longer veiled. Fall has passed me to his successor. I can only hope Winter will receive me with a feather-light touch and shape me as gently, for its bitingly cruel reality knows no bounds. Blood always contrasts harshest with the snow.