Have you ever heard of the spirits of the seasons?
I have.
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Soft light - dusted in the frozen dawn. Pale pink. Peppered blush. Even the rising sun blushes when she sees him.
He's wearing white - snow white. Making his skin look impossibly whiter. Black buttons, black cuffs, but he wears white. The blush-pink light falls on him, weaving through strands of white-blond hair.
Sun-kissed. Wind-swept. Caressed by the mist floating around him in the trees.
White sleeves creased at the elbow - his arms bent.
Flowers. Purple and blue and pink and yellow. Petals in the pockets of his coat. A splash of soft color against the white of the canvas.
Dawn.
His soul is on display. Gray eyes, liquid light. No edges, no steel. Soft, like a clear stream, but with all the mysterious beauty of the height of winter.
There's frost on the spring trees around him - he brings winter air with him, lightly kissing everything around.
A lithe hand disappears behind white fabric - more purple and blue and pink and yellow. More petals. He smiles, the morning blush dusting over his own cheeks and over his pale lips. The wind blows the petals, falling from his hands into the gentle breeze, the colors mixing in with the soft frost, with the bright green it covers. Spring snowflakes. He watches the petals disappear over the horizon. The frost melts.
His fingertips are cold.
---
Butterfly wings. Cicada chirps. The buzz of a bee.
He hears woodpeckers - the beating heart of the forest.
The bright green of his eyes rivals even the most vivid leaves on the trees.
Bird song - his favorite. They sing to him - they sing songs of love and light.
White clouds wander overhead, whispering secrets to be carried away on the wind. The sky is blue. The sun is in her prime, shining down - unabashed and full, radiant when reflected off of his smooth tan skin.
He tilts his head up, eyes sparkling.
He tilts his head up to the heavens.
He whispers, adding to the secrets of the clouds.
Dragonflies circle around him, purple and blue and pink and yellow.
He closes his eyes. Soft, warm raindrops fall on his lips, settling on the line in between. They fall on his eyelashes and on the freckles dusting his cheeks, on the crisp white of his shirt, dark spots painting it slowly.
He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning up. The leaves in the trees are gleaming. A dragonfly follows him when he walks into the shade of a nearby tree. Flowers bloom next to his feet.
The gentle buzz of the wings of the dragonfly keeps him company while he waits.
---
Leaves crinkle under his feet, but they don't break. He's featherlight. He's the evening, he's dusk - he's almost.
His hair is golden among the oranges and browns and reds of the trees. His skin, white, pale, like the rays of light breaking through the sleeping trees.
The world is being rewritten, and he can smell the ink and the paper when he walks through the cold October drizzle.
He can smell bonfires. The embers run up his veins, the flames flow through the strands of his hair. The gray of the smoke pools in his eyes.
He raises his arms, white coat running up, letting the cool breeze circle his wrists. His palms turn down and the wind picks up, the leaves dancing around him. A menagerie of colors engulfs his body. Art, he is Art.
He tips his head back, and the wind flows through his hair.
Gray eyes meet gray sky.
Cool rain meets warm skin.
The raindrops fall horizontally in the circle of the wind around him. Thunder rumbles.
He is a rainstorm.
A squirrel tries to crack open an acorn. A leaf catches on his tail.
The raindrops fall up to the clouds.
He is almost.
---
Evergreen, pine tree, warm green under cold snow. Mistletoe rosy on his cheeks, cranberry red on his lips.
Night dawns.
The sky darkens. His green eyes grow brighter. Footsteps form in the snow, fallen leaves catch in his hair. Dark brown, almost black - a tribute to Mother Earth.
The night sky surrenders to him easily - he catches starlight on the tips of his fingers. His breath tickles his skin as he blows, and a cascade of stars gently fall onto the pine needles. They turn into snowflakes under his touch, sticking to the wool of his white sweater, his red scarf.
He smiles softly - moonlight shines off of the icicles on the bare branches, the light slow dancing in between the rods of ice.
February chill - the tips of his ears are red. Snow sticks to the lenses of his glasses. He sees - he sees. He sees in the dark.
Warm fingers brush over a flower bud hiding in the shadow of a tree trunk.
He lies down in the snow.
How still. How silent. How alive.
---
They kiss during the solstice, make love during the equinox. Midsummer, high spring, the dead of winter, the eves of autumn. Few, far between. Beautiful - they're beautiful.
They touch palms over riverbeds, between the walls of canyons, over the clouds, icy cold meeting soft warmth. Their fingers interlace and they feel the world around them melt together. Gray meets green. Darkness meets light. Shadow meets sun. They are one - even when they are apart, they are one.
They wait - they always wait. In the branches of the trees, they wait, and in the stems of roses and the veins of the leaves. They watch the story of the world around them - they help write it, too.
Then, when they can, they come together. Winter meets spring in the sun shining on the cold flowerbeds, and summer meets fall in the first red leaf that falls on the almost-green grass.
Calloused hands tangle in blond hair.
Pale lips feather over tan skin.
Rain pours and thunder sings and lightening illuminates the night. The sky meets the earth. The world trembles.
They are Creation.
In the creases between the seasons.