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Quince flowers on a bare stick of a tree, blooming in the dead of winter. Coral colored buds against brown bark, two elements, earth and water.
The blue aired sky, the fire orange sun. Air and sky and weft and warp. The dogs sense a reckoning. They raise their ears in a unified front with the four elements.
They yowl into song like actors in a musical. At times like these, when winter seems eternal, when spirits flag, when fear threatens to extinguish the elements of life, we need a rousing score. A yellow brick road. A little dog, too.
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.
The dawn light has changed
to a grey gold cousin of the blue brilliance that brightened my summer.
Max's golden lab fur blends into the tawny tall grass.
He looks at me. “What do you want? The works? Right.”
He pees again, strolls to the center of the meadow lawn, and squats to do his business.
His business is to
please. It is the thing he does best, most naturally. Despite arthritis,
his portly, chunky body seems to yield. Face aging white,
he's older than I am. Seventy-seven.
At seventy-two, cranky and arthritic, I won't age gratefully or graciously.
Sun and rain ravage her wind tossed hair,
jet black strands smooth as onyx glass.
Silken threads like kitten's fur,
new as morning dew on grass.
A child, yet grown, eyes intent,
round with wonder, bright with fire.
Her night brings monsters, malcontents
wreaking havoc in dreamland's mire.
Ruled by demons dangerous dark,
audacious lies we can do without.
Perdition's putrid stench arises
ignoring famine, flood and drought.
An omen for tomorrow?
Resist the slippery slope.
Stand together against oblivion,
build barricades of hope.
The future waits. We can save one another.
Honor the Earth for she is our mother.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 