Sun Catcher

Today at noon, this day in late September, while the sun shines like enamel and the wind unravels my ivory hair, one wish pulses in my heart: I want to become a sun catcher.
 
I am running away from Gloom City, pulling away from some everlasting tragedies: the loss of my grandson, the loss of sight in my left eye, tragedies that shape the outline of a frozen, muffled circle.
 
And the pain, like a worn-out old wagon wheel going through a nasty patch of sand, jolts and scrapes at my core. And I wish, oh how I wish, that these tragedies were not, that my life could be as subtle as a verse. Still, I comfort myself; the sun shines brighter in that patch of winter snow.
 
I need to put aside the wings of downfall.  For sure, I will find bumps in the road, but the glow I can still see in the early mist will help me to make it into something like a paradise.
 
Yes, I do want a paradise. There are no losses in paradise.
 
I will see my grandson again. His smile always made me think of a radiant moon. And my left eye will wake up from its slumber, and I will meet the stars.
 
I will think of marigolds—they withstand the winter frost and still bloom in spring.
 
With my sails fully unfurled, I will navigate uncertain weather. Playful, I will welcome the ruffle of the wind, I will think of daffodils, and I will feel the brush of angel wings on my cheeks.
Relentlessly, I want to go forward and capture the splendor of each day.
 
I am already finding frolicsome perks of wonder filtering through my nose, my fingertips and my toes—little wonders that pop up here and there in the bittersweet scent of the night air, these swift sparks of light, so brief and so brilliant that they knock me down. And when I recover, they are gone. Gone to Dreamland?
 
In their wondrous, wind-fledged flame they take me to the land where dreams come true and where, I believe, I could find the grace to bless the huddle of my losses.
 
I will not need a travel agent with an empty semi-smile. I will walk through a simple side road; its white gravel ribbon will guide me, one step at a time.  No tickets to expire.
 
I will not need an iron-clad itinerary. My fancy is free of agendas. I will follow the spontaneous flares of seasons: suns, snows and serenades. I will follow my heart with the playful teasing of my memories and dreams—while a supple lavender scent strokes the grin on my face.
 
I will not need luggage; I have whatever I need: this hunger for insight that plays hide and seek in my soul. This wide field of thought, like flopping veils hanging in the wind; I lift one and discover hundreds of them beneath.
 
I will not need a camera; my faithful eye will catch those sparkles of light, soft, like a rhyming verse—even when the wind gusts.
 
I will store in my mind the sight of those red and yellow leaves, how they tumble in the wind. I could even perpetuate a summer in the deep of the Antarctic...
 
And after all this wishing, travelling, and dreaming, maybe I will be able to accept the weight of my losses, and be grateful for everything else I still have, as the glow of the lazy sun filters through my smile.