Sunday Scribbling: The Painter in Me

For this week's prompt, I thought I'd paint you some pictures.

Prompt #107: Compose

If I were a painter, I'd compose beautiful landscapes and detailed still lifes. Unfortunately, I am not a painter. I've tried to be, even taking art classes to train my shaky hands and my mind's eye, but all to no avail. I have what I like to believe is a painter's eye, though. Sometimes I see scenes and objects in such detail, with such beauty, that I wish I could translate those images onto a canvas. I have to settle, instead, for painting pictures with my words.

If I could compose some paintings for you, I would create a series of images from my hometown—a small village, nestled on the eastern shore of Lake Ontario.

I. The ground is covered in a bright white blanket of freshly fallen snow. The night sky is a deep shade of midnight blue, interrupted by millions of twinkling pin-prick stars. The street lamps of Main Street cast shadows on the sidewalk and the snow crackles beneath my boots. My breath is nearly frozen solid, a cloud of white as soon as it leaves my body. It feels good, the cold I capture as I inhale, warming it in my lungs and then releasing it again.

II. The maple trees are just beginning to show their buds, a welcome sight after seemingly endless months of snow and cold. School children laugh and scream on the playground. It's recess and you can hear them from just about any corner of this small town. The ground is still soft and spongy from the melt, and will be for a few weeks, but the grass is greening and getting longer. The scent of life hangs in the air, floating on the soft breeze that finally holds less chill than warmth.

III. The sun is hot and small American flags wave from every few telephone poles down all two of the main streets in town. Barrel planters along Main Street have taken the place of snow banks and overflow with bright colors declaring the season of summer celebrations. The tourists linger at storefronts and dine at outdoor tables. You can hear the clinking of silverware on plates and bowls. Music drifts on the air now, carried from backyard parties and Sunday concerts alike. The marina is filled with children feeding ducks and sail boats, bearing names like Serendipity and My Lady Love, heading in or out of town. The sun glows as it sets, reflected on the peaks of gentle waves in shades of pink and orange and red. I sit on the bench watching it disappear over the edge of my world.

IV. Leaves crackle beneath my feet as I stroll down the sidewalk of Main Street. The browns and oranges on the trees are beginning to find their way to the ground. One strong wind and they'll find themselves swept into piles for children to jump in and toss and enjoy. Everywhere you go, hints of the hibernation that will follow are beginning to appear. Chairs upturned on tabletops in restaurants no longer serving during the week; "Closed" signs in the windows of shops that just weeks ago would have been open well past five o'clock; empty benches and quiet streets even in the daylight hours. The tourists have all gone home and it is time to prepare for the winter that lies ahead.