Green Mountain (VerMont)

Her home smelled like a cinnamon Christmas morning. Slanted ceilings and wood floors, old red bottles on the windowsill and quiet coffee cups. Her orange sweater embraced me like it had been years since we last saw each other. I liked the pumpkins on her porch and the smell of her basement. I liked the big tree in her yard and her navy blue car. She took me through the woods where the sun glinted through the yelloworangered leaves and we welcomed Fall together with our cameras. We listened to bluegrass and then went home and played our own, sang in harmony, told secrets to the stars. We danced next to Lake Champlain and ate brick oven pizza. We played with children in the grass and sampled honey and cheese and samosas from laughing men at the farmers market. We drank wine with my lovely relatives and took photos of our arms around each other. Everywhere we looked there were beautiful, built, driven and creative men. Everywhere we looked there was possibility. Everywhere we looked there was Burlington.