Crystal White sleeps through spring and summer. Tats fine lace on crisp fall days. In winter, an icy wraith, She crusts roofs, coats bare branches. Under deciduous trees, leaves clump, stiff to the ground.
She casts a spell. Keeps me warm abed. Reluctant to heed the call of morning’s light, I dream of fragrant gingerbread. Relaxed under a blanket, I peruse the glossy pages of a travel book. A fire warms the room. The logs crumble to embers.
Resigned, I set aside all thoughts of reprieve. Dark days are coming, Winter before spring. Grim hiatus, but these trials will pass.
Death disrupts life’s everydayness. Ends the companionship of eating together, Evening walks and midnight talks With friends and family.
Ends the companionship of eating together, Thoughts shared, words and deeds. These bring us close With friends and family, Confer death its sting through everyday loss.
Thoughts shared, words and deeds, these bring us close. Long before we die these precious threads loosen, Confer death its sting through everyday loss. Everyday loss creeps up, settles in softly
Long before we die these precious threads loosen, Evening walks and midnight talks. Everyday loss creeps up, settles in softly. Death disrupts life’s everydayness.
There’s a moment when I think about a lonely alone in the future because life throws these things at you, especially at our age.
Would that be okay? Could I make it work?
No. I would end up down infinite rabbit holes, an eternity of recursions, chasing Red Queens and Cheshire Cats, my own tail. Not making sense.
Your presence anchors me in this time, this here and now present. I depend on the steady chronology of your day-in, day-out goodness, depend on the moments we intersect at intervals to talk, to eat, to share a thought.
Not windy as we thought it would be. Light breeze spins a metal orb; shelf fungus grows in a tree knot.
Spring, the first of many buds, of many mushrooms, honey colored. They make the most of rain. Draw it into gills that spore. The dogs sniff around, giddy.
Soon enough another front will come. We’ll hunker inside. Soon enough a fierce February like last February when soil sogged and trees uprooted.
We live by the weather, uncertain what else might give way, grateful the sun shines, for now. Then watch the world move fast past points of no return.
Until spring comes, Persephone will fill the Styx with tears of longing for her mother. Caught in the prison of Hades’s grasping power, she mourns. Caught in the devil of the season, we wish it done.
We cry for hope. Hope that the dark sky opens. That sunlight shines on puddles and nourishes green shoots of grass. Grass like flying carpets. Take us from this dark country, soar high on a hope and a prayer.
A hope that Persephone and Demeter will be united in love of Mother Earth. Their garden will bloom again. A prayer for spring. For redemption.
The poppy leaf is stiff and white with frost. Delicate feathers of foliage contrast against brown mounds of spent high grass. When the sun comes out, the poppies thaw. Dew beads on a multicolored expanse of meadow. Rough and soft textures interweave; edges spill at random, blend in harmony.
Tetchy plants prefer to dominate, isolate. Eucalyptus comes to mind. Allelopathic, eucalyptus inhibits growth in adjacent plants. Shreds of fallen leaves smother the ground. The sameness of the eucalyptus forest, its homogeneity like a vast suburban tract or a war zone. Chemical warfare, a kind of balance, a kind of aggression.
Swirling specters scatter cinnamon maple leaves, whirling dervishes, they dance in autumn snow. Wind breathes life, then stops.
I would stop but the dogs pull through slick pools of layered leaf litter, a spill of wet red color seeps into wine dark puddles left from last night’s rain.
Just hours ago, a gray day a hint of sun at ten, and blue. But now it’s settled into quiet light, an end of year contemplative light.
A wise light that gives the year a voice, gives the day a meaning, illuminates falling leaves; a soft blanket over bright, cold truth.
Kohnan is a dog, though at times we think he’s a cat. Like when he luxuriates in the sun and, swear to God, purrs. Snout out, a rub on the rug, all two feet of him stretch, roll, vigorous arch, turn over and repeat. Pure pleasure. I rub his tummy and his neck. He deigns to hold court on the comfy rug because he’s royalty. Devotion is his due, right? His liquid brown eyes melt me. But when I leave the room, he foreswears sunshine for my sunless office and settles at my feet. I guess he is a dog.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 