photo: jetheriot
The sky in October is so something. For the last three days I've been searching for the word. Blue, yes, blue, but the sky's blue in spring and summer too. No, there's something special about the October sky in particular, when summer's dead beyond a doubt and breezes shake pollen from the ragweed. The sky is so what? . . . thin? . . . tinted aqua? . . . sheer? . . . otherworldly?
You have to live thirty years at least for the richness of seasons to fully register, how the ivy-leaved morning glory, for example, begins its bloom as the wild sunflower sheds its final seeds, how persimmons wax golden as okra turns woody on the stalk, how buttercups and mimosa flowers, when you can find them this time of year, seem strange and out of time, or how the mind, at least for me, grows obsessive and lurches inward, finding solace in ancient music and the furl of warm pajamas.
Is the sky really that different in October? Maybe it's me, maybe I'm seeing it through October-tinted eyes. Whatever the October sky is or isn't, I feel something when I see it, and if ever I should fall into a long deep sleep and awaken in the middle of October, I'd know it by the color of its emotion, even if it never had a name.