It is with slight embarrassment that I write this. A friend of mine once created a character whose name was the Destoryer. Originally a typo, upon seeing this, I only scarcely concealed my excitement. Wouldn't such a character make a more dastardly villain even than the original intent? Not someone who destroys, but someone who steals stories. One of my favorite quotes in Name of the Wind (Patrick Rothfuss) is by Kvothe in the presence of a social-working priest who lives in a basement caring for a bunch of waifs, the ignored children of impoverished urbania. One of the children, a suffering and likely traumatized child, moans, asking for a story. Trapis replies that he knows no stories, and Kvothe thinks: "everyone has at least one story."
Another story I read, at my best friend's behest, was a book called The Book of Lost Things by Connolly. While I have mixed feelings about this story, and mixed feelings about grotesque, grim tales like that in general, the concept was incredible in a sense. A crooked man who promises a different story, an escape from a troubling story. But if there was a creature that might steal your story, might leave you a helpless shell, a husk of character, personality, and past, would that not be the most diabolical of entities? I long to develop this character, and need only a fae enough world for housing him - something between Coralina, Stardust and Wildwood. This character I've only imagined already frightens and awes me. He's more intimidating than Mr Hyde, Dracula, the Wicked Witch, or even the white witch. Does his power require and bequeathal from the victim? Or does he possess legendary powers of leaving behind a wake of soulless victims? His story approaches, and he haunts me creative dreams.
Nothing much more interesting tonight. Reading some Maya Angelou and marking down what I want to read over the next few days. Time is slipping through the hourglass' waist and down to her toes. This is the sinking sand of my dreams, turn me over, turn me over and let me fall into sleep.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Forgotten Thoughts
When I was but a boy, I loved reading. My greatest heroes were not basketball stars or football legends, movie celebrities or historical tacticians of some distant violence. No, my heroes were fabricated from imagination, mine and others, and I sought them out in each of their worlds: Narnia, Lord of the Rings, the Boxcar Children, Ender's Game, Taran Wanderer. It should not be surprising, then, realizing that I desired of my future not a successful sports career, or being a film artist or superhero, but to be an author, a definer of story.
Even in my youth, I recall car rides where I invented the catch line the protagonist might say that would catch the villain off guard, shredding his schemes and administering justice; or that perfect phrase that captures the heroines heart; or that aha! moment where the mystery is unraveled, the culprit's elaborate plans falling apart in the face of sherlockian rationale.
I wish, even now, I could have seen those phrases. The mind of a child has immense power, and I suspect that while they might have been unformed, even those trivial lines, in the eyes of a child, contained much magic. Writing innovation might arrive at any point, and I've learned one must be wary, always possessing some tool for inscription at all times. Who knows when that character's motivation will be illuminated, sitting in the back seat of a car on the road to nowhere? Or when the opening hook of a story falls neatly into place, or the denouement crashes into your mind like a hurricane of hammers - what if you have nothing to remember these ideas with?
You think, I'll just remember them all later, sometime when I'm at ease and writing in the safety of my home. But will you remember then? Hours later and life impeding? I suspect not. Even today, I imagined some fantastic lines in the car and neglected to set them into a device or notebook of some kind. Now, I sigh at the loss of creativity this world will never see. I'm no titanic author, not now, but my words, to me, still possess much creative merit, however unformed. It is like the cooling of the earth, formless and void. Eventually, I'll put everything into place: plants, seas, life. Every time I forget, the world never gets to experience a dodo bird or a rhinoceros. It may never know, but I'll never see things the same without.
Even in my youth, I recall car rides where I invented the catch line the protagonist might say that would catch the villain off guard, shredding his schemes and administering justice; or that perfect phrase that captures the heroines heart; or that aha! moment where the mystery is unraveled, the culprit's elaborate plans falling apart in the face of sherlockian rationale.
I wish, even now, I could have seen those phrases. The mind of a child has immense power, and I suspect that while they might have been unformed, even those trivial lines, in the eyes of a child, contained much magic. Writing innovation might arrive at any point, and I've learned one must be wary, always possessing some tool for inscription at all times. Who knows when that character's motivation will be illuminated, sitting in the back seat of a car on the road to nowhere? Or when the opening hook of a story falls neatly into place, or the denouement crashes into your mind like a hurricane of hammers - what if you have nothing to remember these ideas with?
You think, I'll just remember them all later, sometime when I'm at ease and writing in the safety of my home. But will you remember then? Hours later and life impeding? I suspect not. Even today, I imagined some fantastic lines in the car and neglected to set them into a device or notebook of some kind. Now, I sigh at the loss of creativity this world will never see. I'm no titanic author, not now, but my words, to me, still possess much creative merit, however unformed. It is like the cooling of the earth, formless and void. Eventually, I'll put everything into place: plants, seas, life. Every time I forget, the world never gets to experience a dodo bird or a rhinoceros. It may never know, but I'll never see things the same without.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Fever Dreams
Lost's days were a nightmare of frozen frames of heat waves, hot and cold. He woke seating, his skin itching as it dried from the heat and sweat in vain to saturate his scalding limbs. Or he woke violently shaking, or cold beyond shaking, glaciers running icy channels through his veins and lungs gasping for warmth. Those few moments of clarity, scarce contrasted with feverish agony, collected disparate images of lying on a stretched, animal-skin litter hoisted by two burly blurs Lost couldn't quite discern. The air wavered angrily, shimmering, as though a lens of gauze covered Lost's eyes, and Lost suspected they crossed a vast desert.
He would have been correct. Chaos, only kilometers behind, watched as the caravan carrying Lost progressed from oasis to oasis in the arid wasteland. The sands shone like reflective glass, a second crimson sun, leaving no solace from the sky or surface from the overbearing light, no remiss in the endless, rolling sands. Entropy had torn through this region as a detached and implacable force, crushing the iron stones into rust-red sands, a desert chaff full of scattered memories. Small, finely sandblasted rocks littered the ever-shifting dunes, a flaky, craggy hide of earth that looked like the scabbed skin of some subterranean monstrosity.
The rolling hills eternal, Chaos thought, an ocean of stone and silicon in everlasting swells with scarce a cactus or shrub interrupting the cruel monotony. A halo of clouds coated the horizon like sea-foam, upsetting an otherwise perfect blue sky, glossed over with heat haze. Small rodents scampered along the cracks and seethes of the low ground, and the caravan ahead threw whirlwinds of sand into the air, leaving clouds of iron which Chaos carefully followed, always keeping low and silent, a huntress.
----notes----
While Lost tossed and turned, fighting an endemic illness, Chaos tracked, wondering what these strange people wanted, where they were going. They were not the same, she'd realized, as those that had attacked her near the ship. It wasn't until the fifth night that they reached a destination. The caravan stopped on the edge of a great forest of towering trees and fungus, stretching high as the hills.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Borealis
Was it fortune or destiny that I saw her then, a wisp of ribbon light? She glided past, the song emanating from her person as surely as the aura of colors clothed and spun about her.
"Wait!" I called, but I knew I may as well try and stop the morning. I followed. Vibrant multi-chromatic strings of light writhed and whirled in her wake like wings, raising prickles on my skin where they stroked and swept. I noticed nothing but she, in all this, and now I can scarce recall anything save her form in flight. My vague recollections of the path we followed involved no burn, no memory if any bubbling brook or the sound of trickling water over river stones. The scene we drifted through, for I recall no walking, was fae, pierced by mercurial shafts of lunar silver.
Abstractions of trees and brush outlined the narrow trail, mere shadows on the wall with the iridescent flame flickering before me. Perhaps we traveled, or perhaps the landscape simply slid past as we ascended into the hilltops. Time passed as a series of impossibly fast, freeze-frame images, lightning fast, glacier slow, and eventually we arrived.
I walked up beside her, gazing over a precipitous clifftop across a valley of lights: a city of embers and bonfires, or sparks and fireplaces. She spoke, and her voice was sweeter, even, than the song now silenced. I could not look at her face.
"These are their loves, and they spark and burn to dust. These are their hopes, warmth in cold and light in the dark. These are their memories, brilliant, destructive, and beautiful as the stars. These are their lives, fireflies in a magical, mysterious world. Fly, burn bright, and you will receive what's given."
Before I could respond, she leapt from the cliff's edge, sailing into the sky. The entire sky glowed like a new dawn of wind and colors, an iridescent flame burning at the horizon of time. And I knew, I knew I must leap after her.
I do not know if I leapt or if I woke first. I woke in my be, that night, whispers of a distant stream prevalent in my head. Sitting here now, sputtering candle dimly illuminating this scratchy parchment on which I write, I wonder if I dreamed it all - could I have dreamed it all? But each time I hear that trickling burn, I know, I know, I must return, return to that world of fire and light, and leap into the night, become the dawn.
When the wine of her lips upon this heart sits
and the song of her memory
most luxurious melody
in my mind no recollection rests
in my soul a holy honey sits
honeybees buzzing will you be mine
until sunset dawns on the midnight of time?
"Wait!" I called, but I knew I may as well try and stop the morning. I followed. Vibrant multi-chromatic strings of light writhed and whirled in her wake like wings, raising prickles on my skin where they stroked and swept. I noticed nothing but she, in all this, and now I can scarce recall anything save her form in flight. My vague recollections of the path we followed involved no burn, no memory if any bubbling brook or the sound of trickling water over river stones. The scene we drifted through, for I recall no walking, was fae, pierced by mercurial shafts of lunar silver.
Abstractions of trees and brush outlined the narrow trail, mere shadows on the wall with the iridescent flame flickering before me. Perhaps we traveled, or perhaps the landscape simply slid past as we ascended into the hilltops. Time passed as a series of impossibly fast, freeze-frame images, lightning fast, glacier slow, and eventually we arrived.
I walked up beside her, gazing over a precipitous clifftop across a valley of lights: a city of embers and bonfires, or sparks and fireplaces. She spoke, and her voice was sweeter, even, than the song now silenced. I could not look at her face.
"These are their loves, and they spark and burn to dust. These are their hopes, warmth in cold and light in the dark. These are their memories, brilliant, destructive, and beautiful as the stars. These are their lives, fireflies in a magical, mysterious world. Fly, burn bright, and you will receive what's given."
Before I could respond, she leapt from the cliff's edge, sailing into the sky. The entire sky glowed like a new dawn of wind and colors, an iridescent flame burning at the horizon of time. And I knew, I knew I must leap after her.
I do not know if I leapt or if I woke first. I woke in my be, that night, whispers of a distant stream prevalent in my head. Sitting here now, sputtering candle dimly illuminating this scratchy parchment on which I write, I wonder if I dreamed it all - could I have dreamed it all? But each time I hear that trickling burn, I know, I know, I must return, return to that world of fire and light, and leap into the night, become the dawn.
When the wine of her lips upon this heart sits
and the song of her memory
most luxurious melody
in my mind no recollection rests
in my soul a holy honey sits
honeybees buzzing will you be mine
until sunset dawns on the midnight of time?
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Aurora
A little burn trickles, not far from where I sit, writing this now. It is not an ostentatious brook. It was never meant to be. An observant man might have found it sooner; I learned of its existence only a fortnight past. It is not obvious, no, but it is not hidden, either. For those listening, carefully heeding the sussurrus of the wind, it beckons. I found it thus. Perhaps you may, also.
The moon was low, and words were scarce that night, flightier than dreams. A corner lamp flickered with weakening fluorescence, and the empty parchment shone a dim gold on my antique mahogany desk.Through the drawn shades, a whiff of breeze fluttered the violet curtains, and the sound of trees swished outside. I knuckled my forehead, praying for even a paucity of words, even one that sounded... precious. I sighed and pushed myself back in the chair, the front legs raised off the ground as I leaned back, my tenuous grip on the desk's rim allowing my precarious perch.
Abruptly the wind stopped, and there was silence: no owl hru-hru, no kiro-kiro of toads, none of the cautious pips of nighttime birds or the rustling creatures in the underbrush. Straining, I heard but a tiny trickle, as of a faucet left running over dishes. I got up slowly and tip-tapped towards the kitchen, my bare feet cold against the cherry-wood floor.
The sound almost receded as I entered the kitchen, and I knew it was behind me. A cursory glimpse around the home revealed no tap or spigot unplugged. The sound originated from outside. I didn't even bother with my shoes, pushing open the sliding glass door with surreptitious care. The pine needles and softened sticks littering the ground felt natural, familiar under my feet, though I'd never walked such before. Moonlight filtered through the trees, and when I glanced up, I noticed it was lower than I'd expected, and fuller. Indeed, a full moon shone through the glade the color of decaying parchment, an ancient, yellowed moon, old and gnostic in the sky.
I crept down the hillside into the deeper woods behind my plot, surprised at the soundlessness of my feet against the earth. The trickling grew louder. I imagined I must be drawing near, for the sound filled my ears with a half-music, a fluting whistle and a brush of graceful fingers across an aqueous harp. Soon I saw it, nestled among the river-smooth stones in the crook of the hillside. Trees and flowers jigsawed around the burn protectively, and I brushed past, the champagne moon casting a chill lunar light over my shoulder, reflecting in the water as a rippled face, timeless and patient.
It smelled different here, distant, as though this stream was the stuff of memories and I merely a player on a stage of stories. A rustling noise, and I heard a shape across the creek.
"Hello?" I asked, my voice sounding invasive in the calm. A shape darted across the other side, and moonlight displayed a feminine figure briefly, before it passed into the trees, rustling and then silent. I clambered across the water, parting the tall grass and stepping across the burn by means of the great stones.
"Hello?" I called again, curious at this fantastic coincidence. Who else would have found this brook this night? As I stepped onto the other shore, a blinding light struck me, and a loud roar filled my eardrums like a typhoon.
I collapsed, curling into a ball to protect myself from the noises, the lights burning into me, before I realized everything was within my head. What must have been centuries later, or moments, I opened my eyes. A strange lilting voice replaced the hurricane in my head, a sweet and sorrowful song, both - the most beautiful I'd ever heard. Was it that woman I'd seen? Colors filled my vision, and I could see nothing but. Crimsons and greens, violet and cobalt and silver, as though I'd stepped into the northern lights, and stood amidst their ephemeral threads. As the voice sang, the colors changed, like ribbons of melody distorting and contorting with the voice, an intricate dance of color so beautiful, I stayed entranced for another eternity, breathing, drinking, swallowing up that aria of hues, saturated in sound.
To be continued...
The moon was low, and words were scarce that night, flightier than dreams. A corner lamp flickered with weakening fluorescence, and the empty parchment shone a dim gold on my antique mahogany desk.Through the drawn shades, a whiff of breeze fluttered the violet curtains, and the sound of trees swished outside. I knuckled my forehead, praying for even a paucity of words, even one that sounded... precious. I sighed and pushed myself back in the chair, the front legs raised off the ground as I leaned back, my tenuous grip on the desk's rim allowing my precarious perch.
Abruptly the wind stopped, and there was silence: no owl hru-hru, no kiro-kiro of toads, none of the cautious pips of nighttime birds or the rustling creatures in the underbrush. Straining, I heard but a tiny trickle, as of a faucet left running over dishes. I got up slowly and tip-tapped towards the kitchen, my bare feet cold against the cherry-wood floor.
The sound almost receded as I entered the kitchen, and I knew it was behind me. A cursory glimpse around the home revealed no tap or spigot unplugged. The sound originated from outside. I didn't even bother with my shoes, pushing open the sliding glass door with surreptitious care. The pine needles and softened sticks littering the ground felt natural, familiar under my feet, though I'd never walked such before. Moonlight filtered through the trees, and when I glanced up, I noticed it was lower than I'd expected, and fuller. Indeed, a full moon shone through the glade the color of decaying parchment, an ancient, yellowed moon, old and gnostic in the sky.
I crept down the hillside into the deeper woods behind my plot, surprised at the soundlessness of my feet against the earth. The trickling grew louder. I imagined I must be drawing near, for the sound filled my ears with a half-music, a fluting whistle and a brush of graceful fingers across an aqueous harp. Soon I saw it, nestled among the river-smooth stones in the crook of the hillside. Trees and flowers jigsawed around the burn protectively, and I brushed past, the champagne moon casting a chill lunar light over my shoulder, reflecting in the water as a rippled face, timeless and patient.
It smelled different here, distant, as though this stream was the stuff of memories and I merely a player on a stage of stories. A rustling noise, and I heard a shape across the creek.
"Hello?" I asked, my voice sounding invasive in the calm. A shape darted across the other side, and moonlight displayed a feminine figure briefly, before it passed into the trees, rustling and then silent. I clambered across the water, parting the tall grass and stepping across the burn by means of the great stones.
"Hello?" I called again, curious at this fantastic coincidence. Who else would have found this brook this night? As I stepped onto the other shore, a blinding light struck me, and a loud roar filled my eardrums like a typhoon.
I collapsed, curling into a ball to protect myself from the noises, the lights burning into me, before I realized everything was within my head. What must have been centuries later, or moments, I opened my eyes. A strange lilting voice replaced the hurricane in my head, a sweet and sorrowful song, both - the most beautiful I'd ever heard. Was it that woman I'd seen? Colors filled my vision, and I could see nothing but. Crimsons and greens, violet and cobalt and silver, as though I'd stepped into the northern lights, and stood amidst their ephemeral threads. As the voice sang, the colors changed, like ribbons of melody distorting and contorting with the voice, an intricate dance of color so beautiful, I stayed entranced for another eternity, breathing, drinking, swallowing up that aria of hues, saturated in sound.
To be continued...
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Ramblings - Nothing to see here
Today, I worked deep into the night. It is possibly my ego that drove me into it, for my boss might have been understanding had I returned to work unfinished, with a plausible explanation as to why. However, having said it would be finished, I counted myself tethered to that statement. It is this industrial "ant" mentality that drives me along creative strains also, however. I cannot complain about the results.
It is a rambling night. I'm not certain I have anything worth saying, and I'm a wee bit exhausted (I finished all of the work things I had to do at 10 instead of 5). I suppose I can at least discuss a little bit of my marathon continuation. Still, quite successful in all avenues. There may be another stage of the race I previously neglected: the camel's bump, the peak of the bell-curve. I don't actually believe marathons quite work that way, with everything being downhill after the middle. I suspect they run more like stories, with a steady rising action leaning into a steep climactic climb, and then denouement! We've crossed the finish line after a bit of falling action and an excited leap towards the delimiting flag.
Still, there is something about the middle that is not unlike a story. Sometimes, when reading a particularly difficult or intense piece of literature, the beginning portion of the story is overwhelming. How will I ever make it to the end of if I struggle so heartily early on? But once you reach the middle, it is like walking a trail halfway up a mountain. If I've made it this far, is it not just the same distance back? Might as well keep going, because I've already shown I can make it this far, and giving up now seems ridiculous. It is past the stage of early abandonment. At least I have that, right?
I think it's definitely sleep time. I'm not certain I've said anything remotely intelligible, or of any form of utility. I hope and pray you are all sleeping well this night, however uncomfortably warm it is. May your dreams be sweet.
It is a rambling night. I'm not certain I have anything worth saying, and I'm a wee bit exhausted (I finished all of the work things I had to do at 10 instead of 5). I suppose I can at least discuss a little bit of my marathon continuation. Still, quite successful in all avenues. There may be another stage of the race I previously neglected: the camel's bump, the peak of the bell-curve. I don't actually believe marathons quite work that way, with everything being downhill after the middle. I suspect they run more like stories, with a steady rising action leaning into a steep climactic climb, and then denouement! We've crossed the finish line after a bit of falling action and an excited leap towards the delimiting flag.
Still, there is something about the middle that is not unlike a story. Sometimes, when reading a particularly difficult or intense piece of literature, the beginning portion of the story is overwhelming. How will I ever make it to the end of if I struggle so heartily early on? But once you reach the middle, it is like walking a trail halfway up a mountain. If I've made it this far, is it not just the same distance back? Might as well keep going, because I've already shown I can make it this far, and giving up now seems ridiculous. It is past the stage of early abandonment. At least I have that, right?
I think it's definitely sleep time. I'm not certain I've said anything remotely intelligible, or of any form of utility. I hope and pray you are all sleeping well this night, however uncomfortably warm it is. May your dreams be sweet.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Seasons
"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due." ~ Gaiman
Once, I believed it might be nice living in Guam, or somewhere equatorial, enjoying the steady temperatures preferential for outdoor living. In places in Malaysia, mean daily temperatures often range from 75-85, year round. I've often envied the predictability of these averages. Barring tropical storms, hurricanes, a season of heavy mists, these places offer a picture of idyllic serenity, especially when enduring the upper and lower limits of temperatures in increasing latitudes. Imagine a world where every evening was beach weather, every afternoon ready with fountains and golden sunshine. I'd soon become complacent and carefree as a lizard on a stone, sunbathing ad eternity.
But then there are other days, days I could not imagine being without. My cynical comeback towards such pluperfect human resorts is, "where does all your green come from if it does not rain?" Yet, this is merely silly presumptuousness, and curmudgeonly at that. These places, for all their glorious sunshine, are frequently not dull, dry, dusty, but often filled with pines and ferns, coffee and sugarcane, butterfly brush, coconuts, agave, flowers and flora high and low. How can this be fair? For such verdant life in these parts, the weather ascribes to the "consistent rainfall" strategy. Do secret fowl fly the air at midnight in these strange lands, clasping water buckets in their talons and dripping sugar-sweet dew across the starlit shores, an ancient moon the color of yellowed paper lighting their journey across the sky? Herons and storks and albatrosses, gardeners of these moonlit shores?
If they do, tell me. I'll pack my bags. Still, there are days, I promise you, when every radiant flower blooming: lilac, tulip, crimson pirate, rhododendron and hydrangea, button flowers and wild carrots, nasturtiums, roses and daisies, trilliums and snowdrops, each flower opens agape its maw and exclaims, "spring, spring, spring!" in singing beyond words, a floral cooing of cherry-blossoms and dogwood trees. When birds tweet and nest and flutter along the eaves in the wild proclamation of winter's end. When summer's short sleeves and flowered skirts, violins, guitars, and mandolins played across the grassy hillsides while butterflies take wing - summer! When deciduous trees decide its time for changing leaves, golden, red and amber, and button-top mushrooms poke aloft, and soggy moss collects on branches. As piles of sodden leaves cluster beneath ghastly trees and pines still sing hallelujah, where the cold dry earth is replaced with coffee brown, and the clouds in every shape return.
Even winter, snuggled around the crackling fire, sweet cider and kittens across our knees, and stories of summers and springs taste sugar sweet on our memories. When every night, piles of blankets protect us from every inspecting eye, and it's only ourselves and heavenly warmth against an encroaching freezing night, clasped in God's perfect embrace of cotton and fleece - even winter is perfect in its time.
It is for these, I could not forego my seasons. Keep your perfect weather, I have mine.
Once, I believed it might be nice living in Guam, or somewhere equatorial, enjoying the steady temperatures preferential for outdoor living. In places in Malaysia, mean daily temperatures often range from 75-85, year round. I've often envied the predictability of these averages. Barring tropical storms, hurricanes, a season of heavy mists, these places offer a picture of idyllic serenity, especially when enduring the upper and lower limits of temperatures in increasing latitudes. Imagine a world where every evening was beach weather, every afternoon ready with fountains and golden sunshine. I'd soon become complacent and carefree as a lizard on a stone, sunbathing ad eternity.
But then there are other days, days I could not imagine being without. My cynical comeback towards such pluperfect human resorts is, "where does all your green come from if it does not rain?" Yet, this is merely silly presumptuousness, and curmudgeonly at that. These places, for all their glorious sunshine, are frequently not dull, dry, dusty, but often filled with pines and ferns, coffee and sugarcane, butterfly brush, coconuts, agave, flowers and flora high and low. How can this be fair? For such verdant life in these parts, the weather ascribes to the "consistent rainfall" strategy. Do secret fowl fly the air at midnight in these strange lands, clasping water buckets in their talons and dripping sugar-sweet dew across the starlit shores, an ancient moon the color of yellowed paper lighting their journey across the sky? Herons and storks and albatrosses, gardeners of these moonlit shores?
If they do, tell me. I'll pack my bags. Still, there are days, I promise you, when every radiant flower blooming: lilac, tulip, crimson pirate, rhododendron and hydrangea, button flowers and wild carrots, nasturtiums, roses and daisies, trilliums and snowdrops, each flower opens agape its maw and exclaims, "spring, spring, spring!" in singing beyond words, a floral cooing of cherry-blossoms and dogwood trees. When birds tweet and nest and flutter along the eaves in the wild proclamation of winter's end. When summer's short sleeves and flowered skirts, violins, guitars, and mandolins played across the grassy hillsides while butterflies take wing - summer! When deciduous trees decide its time for changing leaves, golden, red and amber, and button-top mushrooms poke aloft, and soggy moss collects on branches. As piles of sodden leaves cluster beneath ghastly trees and pines still sing hallelujah, where the cold dry earth is replaced with coffee brown, and the clouds in every shape return.
Even winter, snuggled around the crackling fire, sweet cider and kittens across our knees, and stories of summers and springs taste sugar sweet on our memories. When every night, piles of blankets protect us from every inspecting eye, and it's only ourselves and heavenly warmth against an encroaching freezing night, clasped in God's perfect embrace of cotton and fleece - even winter is perfect in its time.
It is for these, I could not forego my seasons. Keep your perfect weather, I have mine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)