Monday, August 25, 2014

Full On Sweet Mystery

In summer’s fading glory there is joy sublime.  Patches of once vibrant but now slightly dusky flowers abound. Breath deep and you will sense of both infinite and finite time.  The blooms upon the flowers still strike the eye from afar.  Upon closer inspection even the untrained eye can see the tints of age have started to scar.  Bright red and yellow and purple flowers abound shout out to the eyes of bees and bugs and humankind I am here, I am alive for this glorious moment.  They roar singing let me fill you heart. But the end of the green stems supporting them grow straw-like and burnt/brittle at the edges.

The glory of the flower takes us away from the finite moment into an eternity of delicious joy, I would call these moments the time of ripe peaches.  As the liquid from that soft fleshy fruit drizzles down after you take a mouthful the sweetness is fully satisfying, almost as sensual as great sex.  The sloppy joy of the sweet taste take us beyond this mortal space into a moment of eternity.

This single summer’s kingdom will come falling down.  Look my friend, you can see it in the silvering leaves of the trees.  This year’s time of short sleeves, short pants and water play will be done soon.  The beaches where we retreated seeking relief from the heat will soon be cold and desolate places. But when you see flowers full and exploding you suspend the reality of time and age and fragility. The tall grasses blowing back and forth with full beard let the clock slow for a minute so that it tick-tock-tick cannot even be perceived.  The thumping of the human heart is lost in the background. 

In the summer warmth of late August I will wrap my warped and worried frame in the joyful colors of the spectrum.  I will let the bird song and the rhythmic hymn of bees’ wings seduce me and hypnotize me into believing this will be forever. Let us celebrate the time of sweet tastes and perfume like smells. Let us revel in the sounds of nature wildly at work, the rustling grass and the buzzing bee.  Let the soft grass be our bed. Let our eyes be awash in the royal purple of lavender as time winds down on this short eternity.


1 comment:

John and Vicki Boyd said...

Lyrical. Clearly you have yet to see The Old Farmer's Almanac prediction for next winter. If you liked last winter, you'll LOVE the next one!!!! Better stock up on firewood......or, better yet, COME ON DOWN!!!!!