Because Color for the Black Bear is a Synonym for Age


In the ‘burbs by the fire is a good place to begin a song about a brown bear and her other brown bear friends.  Doing all the kinds of things that sisters just might do, hoping in their next life times they could be like black bears too.

There they are now, speaking without claws or tooth – each of those were left in the days behind, of youth.  There they were just sitting around the burning fire sharing stories of their times – the brush spots, the brambles, and how they made their dimes.

The wine was spiced, the laughter loud, stars shone above without a cloud.  Marshmallows burnt, the wine was spilled, and knees pulled in as the night air chilled.

Toasts were made, cake was cut, we laughed about all our ruts.  And though we never painted cardboard we know it’s not too late to start, learning that night that apologies are another form of art.

The simplicity of solitude is a hard thing to perfect; stealing happiness from loneliness is not a simple theft.  But each of us are learning, searching far and high and low –  happy this will be here always, in our hearts it’s true we know.

And yes, it is lovely to have a sister thinking of me.   Because when they think, they are thoughtful, when the love they are love-filled, and when they run they run the fastest and spin the Earth right on its axis.

Color for the black bear is a synonym for age; if I were one then I’d be in my cinnamon phase.  And here I am at 22, the decades weigh a ton, but evenings just like this one are a little burst of sun.



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