My favorite days are not those which are filled with golden light, where the sun streams unhindered down from above through the lens of a sky the blue of a baby’s eye; where the grass seems to glow a vibrant green, and a faint breeze carries the scent of summer flowers in full bloom, and everything is filled with the heat of life.
Nor are they the crystal-bright days of winter, where everything is covered in a sheen of ice, turning trees into shimmering sculptures, and snow covers the earth in a perfectly white blanket, as yet undisturbed by churning of feet; and where a warm coat and scarf keeps you warm despite the frigid bite of the air around you.
No, not even those days when the earth is just coming back into life, where the flowers and the leaves are just opening to meet the new sun and butterflies and bees zig-zag through the fresh-thawed air.
My favorite days are those in which a grey blanket occludes the sky, and the light seems to come from a sourceless everywhere, for the sun hides beneath its cover; those where everything is cast in a shade of grey, and so even the dimming greens and browns as the plants head toward slumber seem vibrant and grand. I love when the first touches of reds and oranges come to the leaves, and each touch of the wind is a cool caress, softened by the breath of a distant storm, which brings almost-memories of a time before alongside a pleasant, tranquil melancholy. These days, to me, are peace.