Holy crap. Ok, enough with this uber-personal, depressing crap. Time for something a little happier. I wrote this last fall and even though it's spring now, it reminds me of fall and I think that's cool. Also, I believe that this is the only thing I've written so far that mentions band in any capacity. Took me until now to get a satisfying end going, but I think it's better now. New challange for you guys too. I'm just curious about who's still out there reading this masterpiece of egotism, but I know there are only so many comments one can leave. But again, I haven't gotten a comment in weeks. So, to make Amy feel better about herself leave a comment. But not just any comment. Because I'm a giant dork you have two choices. Either 1. cop out and just say "Hi" (cheater) or 2. leave me a band memory. Come on, I know it's stupid, but it could be fun....or something. This blog has tons of comment space that needs filling and besides, if we don't write this stuff down, we're going to forget. Heck I'm already starting to forget. Oh, and p.s. if you happen to be a drumer who was too good to come hang out with us band geeks and refused to join high school band, a reenacting story will suffice......loser. (Sorry, had to. Kidding. Only kidding.) :) Ok, so I've been talking for a while. Here's the dang poem already.

Fall Over the Horizon

On the air there is a scent

The smell of damp earth and decaying leaves

That always makes me think of apples, fresh-picked and juicy

Pennsylvania apples plucked by my hand from the tree

They taste like fall

The breeze carries a touch of chill

More pronounced with the coming of night

Promising that winter is soon to come

But before it arrives with its gray starkness and dazzling blanket of silent white

All the world explodes in color

Every tree dripping fire

It is a world of delicate beauty

Made all the more glorious by its brevity

Nature’s last hurrah and soon to fade as one-by-one the trees succumb

To the bitter wind, biting cold now at last

Fingertips of chill plucking at hoods and seeking purchase under doorways

To be driven back only by the spicy scent of baking pies and hot apple cider

Or hand-warmers and hot chocolate to those who know band best

In stadiums where flat instruments and frozen fingers cheer a team to victory

Until frosted jack-o-lanterns glistening in the morning light

Harold the coming of winter

And this bright, loud, gorgeous time draws to an end with the first flake of snow

Not enough to put shirts on the blue-painted bodies of drunken Penn State fans, perhaps

But enough to make one dream of tropical beaches and warm fires, of brighter days and shorter nights

But alas winter is here, Persephone has descended to her gloomy home

And under a snow-white blanket we must slumber

Waiting with the bare-limbed trees in darkness

Until we are awakened once more by the gentle rays

Of far-off spring’s first warm, sunny day