Liturgy

I grew up in Orange County, seasonless,
but with a sense of occasion and ritual:
black patent leather for Christmas,
white patent leather for Easter,
and Buster Browns for ordinary time.
My parents baptized me with a small b
in a chlorine blue pool, where I teared up,
and knew I was loved.
I began each school year
by pulling up my kneesocks, an outward
sign that I took school seriously
and needed my teacher to like me.
But not until my mid-thirties move north
did I feel the crunch of dead leaves
beneath my boots, and the silence
of snow ringing in my ears. Time passes
with a sense of ceremony here—
each season dons the appropriate vestments,
and opens up my sinuses with its own
incense, earthy and ethereal. It is
as it should be, the earth should mark
its own calendar and give me
a real Reason to change my shoes.