So L.A., a Season for All Seasons

Sep 21, 2014










Right about now I need waders to rake my front yard,
so much exquisite, pure, unabashed, falling down, crunching,
spreading out, on top of piles, piles on top of roofs, piles piling up,
piling piles piling, up, down, up, autumn, it’s a lot to take in,
autumn, winter, spring, and summer, so much, it makes me think,
like how much fragrance, sight, sound, touch can a body take?
So rare, the dull, stray, grey, rainy, crisp sweater fall day when a season
whisperer whispers, “Hark the change, it ’tis upon us,”
Time when I run, happy, stoked out into the here and now, chilled, all-wet to the
yard, to my fireplace, to my soup ladle, calling out, “Quick, everyone our new season is here!
A look of reason returning to my and my neighbors’ faces with our hiatus from
our usual one season of sunny, hot, crisp—maybe two if we count the fog—for
the next day or few, fall,
then back to this sunny business, yesterday, today, tomorrow sunny days,
like sunny next Tuesday, like all the next and last boxes of sunny Tuesdays, our
future Tuesdays the same,
an endless transcendence of sunny tuesdays in L.A., we are almost calendar free,
365 Tuesdays,
Hey, don’t get me wrong—I’m a squirrel-rolling-about-it-in-my-nuts-and-oak-
leaves as the next guy-gal on yonder brown hill,
all about our one hit single charm of four in one,
if maybe a little, “Leftovers again?” come fall, come winter, or, “Oh, it’s you,” by
Sprung by summer,
spent, trying to pronounce the unpronouncable
—springslashsummerslashfallslashwinter season,
with so little rain and chilling,
by autumn and winter,
sidelined saying, “All right already with this heat, send in the rain clowns!”
as I sit debating which flip flops to wear come parade day in our mostly bliss,
chance of more, God willing, so relieved at having the time to talk about
something other than the shoveling, de-icing, snow chaining that the rest of the
snowed-in world,
talking on religion for instance,
talking on politics for instance,
or, maybe, rather, our one season for instance.
Yeah, hands down, I’m down with sunny,
hot or hot, sunny, sunnier, sunniest,
I’m down with L.A.


the sun


Copyright © “So L.A., a Season for All Seasons,” 2014 Maryrose Smythe.


Maryrose Smyth lists her passions as family, art making, and Wildwood Park, a still wild artist oak preserve in the inside pinky toe of the Altadena foothills. A place, when in studio mode she calls Blondewood, her own personal woods-planet where humor is a woman’s best policy for eeking out the too little time for writing, painting, kid chasing, bee hosting, keeping secret her Irish Soda Bread recipe and the up to no good again critters requiring much arm flapping to stop who knows what from eating the best tomatoes all while coaxing goodwill from trick muses and bridge trolls whispering behind her back, not forgetting to jiggle the charm handle of her family’s 1910 former milk shed’s plumbing. Peruse Maryrose’s art and interiors at StudioSmyth.comRead her poetry and writing at MaryroseSmyth.wordpress and WildwoodPost Author of Inside Out: Living the Arts and Crafts Life.


Maryrose Smythe



1 Response for “So L.A., a Season for All Seasons”

  1. Do wop girl; I read your stuff, not knowing the author, but the time I took a breath and slowed my gallop at the middle and the end, I knew it was you, “Your Voice” before I cam to your actual handle! Total Wow! e



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