J_Kramer

I lived in a world where outer beauty is the only kind that people see. I’d rather observe it from a rocking chair at the library back home, bearing down on an incredibly scripted work of art.

I’m four years old and it’s pumpkin season again. 

I’m holding tightly to my best friend’s mittened hand 

and feeling the wind whipping at my face, 

turning the tip of my nose pink, 

I'm deeply, truly, purely 

happy 

It cannot be described. Not exactly. But it feels like this. 

It's as if all my life, I've been down somewhere dark, somewhere which I had grown accustomed. 

I balance on the ledge of my window, up 31 floors, back pressed firmly against the side. 

Sometimes, I will look below, and watch. 

And sometimes, it helps. 

The fluttering leaves that were once so lush and green and captivating and sang in the breeze,

Now, they are gold,

Wispy flakes nestled in among the reds and oranges,

It's here, prepared or not – 

A single flower. 

Dozens of breathtaking, intricate pink-orange petals reach for the sun. 

Newly bloomed, plump seeds, crisp leaves, overflowing with rich chlorophyll