Winter freeze fractured the dreaming air, until in shards of hope we stooped. Limbs of kin and bough did tremble-shake. Coal-veined clouds loomed. Ice pellet rain slew in unforgiving slants. Wind thought not lessen, and instead slammed full force. Window panes rattled. Mean drafts redoubled. Puddle mirrors found no sun. For time out of mind, a season had ne’er been so harsh, so capricious and cruel. Each bore it best they could in silent solemnitude.
Winter freeze fractured the dreaming air, until in shards of hope we stooped. Limbs of kin and bough did tremble-shake. Coal-veined clouds loomed. Ice pellet rain slew in unforgiving slants. Wind thought not lessen, and instead slammed full force. Window panes rattled. Mean drafts redoubled. Puddle mirrors found no sun. For time out of mind, a season had ne’er been so harsh, so capricious and cruel. Each bore it best they could in silent solemnitude.
As preserving hand, came winter’s icy glove. A-sparkle in the dayshine, it coated field and forest same. Nature was content that day, to chill in the mischievous wind and to laugh into its mirth. Earth carolled her loamy scent into the cooling air. Rest! Rest! As beloved mother rest! Dream of roses; dream of lambs; dream your heart’s galore.
As preserving hand, came winter’s icy glove. A-sparkle in the dayshine, it coated field and forest same. Nature was content that day, to chill in the mischievous wind and to laugh into its mirth. Earth carolled her loamy scent into the cooling air. Rest! Rest! As beloved mother rest! Dream of roses; dream of lambs; dream your heart’s galore.
Shadows tremble; shadows quiver; shadows curl under the double clock. Night versus day. Autumn versus Winter. So temporary are they! Night erases, day re-draws, on and on they struggle in silent dispute… Until winter’s cold tide doth wash them clean away, doth coat their lofty abodes with ice, doth crumble their beauty into longest decay. Hark! Observe! The withering has begun! Mark my words, one and all, before November has sung her last, the boughs will be full bare.
The leaves by virtue of an autumn sun, so proud and high above, were rendered dayshine lampshades. T’was a kaleidoscope canopy, a patchwork of the warmest rainbow hues. The cooler shades were kept safe by evergreens, lakes and land. All was cool; all was right; all was by autumn’s clockwork command. The sky was clear and bright. The air was earthen-aromatic. The birdsong arrived from out of sight. It was the best of days for a mountain hike, to seek the summit, to absorb the given view.
Summer shivered beneath a storm, an errant storm, lost from winter’s flock. The land no longer was light-bathed, yet had to content itself with mean withering shafts. Perhaps the optimistic eye would see them as balustrades, a heavenly staircase beamed into warmer days. Yet goosebumps don’t lie. Birdsong was mute. Thunder defacto-deafened even the most open ear. Every bright hue washed dim. Every smile fell flat. It wasn’t supposed to be here, but it was, and that was that. Shutters closed. Doors met their catch, bolts and chains too. One cannot churlishly tell the sky to recheck the calendar. It does not know. It does not care. And, so we too took cover, what else was there to do?
Summer shivered beneath a storm, an errant storm, lost from winter’s flock. The land no longer was light-bathed, yet had to content itself with mean withering shafts. Perhaps the optimistic eye would see them as balustrades, a heavenly staircase beamed into warmer days. Yet goosebumps don’t lie. Birdsong was mute. Thunder defacto-deafened even the most open ear. Every bright hue washed dim. Every smile fell flat. It wasn’t supposed to be here, but it was, and that was that. Shutters closed. Doors met their catch, bolts and chains too. One cannot churlishly tell the sky to recheck the calendar. It does not know. It does not care. And, so we too took cover, what else was there to do?
Summer shivered beneath a storm, an errant storm, lost from winter’s flock. The land no longer was light-bathed, yet had to content itself with mean withering shafts. Perhaps the optimistic eye would see them as balustrades, a heavenly staircase beamed into warmer days. Yet goosebumps don’t lie. Birdsong was mute. Thunder defacto-deafened even the most open ear. Every bright hue washed dim. Every smile fell flat. It wasn’t supposed to be here, but it was, and that was that. Shutters closed. Doors met their catch, bolts and chains too. One cannot churlishly tell the sky to recheck the calendar. It does not know. It does not care. And, so we too took cover, what else was there to do?
Summer is a song, a most hearty serenade. Its music is written in blossom quavers, in busy honey bees. Then, for joy, of blessings-sake, comes the sweet carol of the birds. How I love them, this winged choir, chirping their dreams to listening ears: be they yours, be they mine, be they rabbit, mouse or shrew. And, should a light rain per-chance come by with its hither and thither watering, all the better, all the greener, all the gayer still! When August yawns into September, and September bows to Autumn-tide, these memories I’ll treasure as God’s own poetry.
Summer is a song, a most hearty serenade. Its music is written in blossom quavers, in busy honey bees. Then, for joy, of blessings-sake, comes the sweet carol of the birds. How I love them, this winged choir, chirping their dreams to listening ears: be they yours, be they mine, be they rabbit, mouse or shrew. And, should a light rain per-chance come by with its hither and thither watering, all the better, all the greener, all the gayer still! When August yawns into September, and September bows to Autumn-tide, these memories I’ll treasure as God’s own poetry.
Summer is a song, a most hearty serenade. Its music is written in blossom quavers, in busy honey bees. Then, for joy, of blessings-sake, comes the sweet carol of the birds. How I love them, this winged choir, chirping their dreams to listening ears: be they yours, be they mine, be they rabbit, mouse or shrew. And, should a light rain per-chance come by with its hither and thither watering, all the better, all the greener, all the gayer still! When August yawns into September, and September bows to Autumn-tide, these memories I’ll treasure as God’s own poetry.
Summer sent her kissing wind to coast the blacktop streets. She sent pulsing volleys of meadow fragranced air. She sent it infused with homeopathic birdsong, a sweet sound that dared linger long after the song was done. This I heard with my heart, I felt in my soul, and it radiated within until a lyric began to grow. I hummed. I danced a step or two. My lament had blown clean away as loose confetti and a new story was inking itself in. Perhaps it was an ordinary breeze, with neither magic nor music, yet it was the start of everything; it was day one.
Summer sent her kissing wind to coast the blacktop streets. She sent pulsing volleys of meadow fragranced air. She sent it infused with homeopathic birdsong, a sweet sound that dared linger long after the song was done. This I heard with my heart, I felt in my soul, and it radiated within until a lyric began to grow. I hummed. I danced a step or two. My lament had blown clean away as loose confetti and a new story was inking itself in. Perhaps it was an ordinary breeze, with neither magic nor music, yet it was the start of everything; it was day one.
Summer sent her kissing wind to coast the blacktop streets. She sent pulsing volleys of meadow fragranced air. She sent it infused with homeopathic birdsong, a sweet sound that dared linger long after the song was done. This I heard with my heart, I felt in my soul, and it radiated within until a lyric began to grow. I hummed. I danced a step or two. My lament had blown clean away as loose confetti and a new story was inking itself in. Perhaps it was an ordinary breeze, with neither magic nor music, yet it was the start of everything; it was day one.
The wind was winter’s scarf, a plain knit of wooly ice. To bare boughs, to rooftop slates, to roadways and thoroughfares same: it wrapped itself in cruel delight, not once, not twice, yet thrice. It gusted and hollered. It twisted in warped glee, stealing heat, ignoring light. Yes, the wind that day was an unholy thing, unleashed with neither manner nor wit. Rude. It was rude. And, one doesn’t forget such a happening.
The wind was winter’s scarf, a plain knit of wooly ice. To bare boughs, to rooftop slates, to roadways and thoroughfares same: it wrapped itself in cruel delight, not once, not twice, yet thrice. It gusted and hollered. It twisted in warped glee, stealing heat, ignoring light. Yes, the wind that day was an unholy thing, unleashed with neither manner nor wit. Rude. It was rude. And, one doesn’t forget such a happening.
The wind was winter’s scarf, a plain knit of wooly ice. To bare boughs, to rooftop slates, to roadways and thoroughfares same: it wrapped itself in cruel delight, not once, not twice, yet thrice. It gusted and hollered. It twisted in warped glee, stealing heat, ignoring light. Yes, the wind that day was an unholy thing, unleashed with neither manner nor wit. Rude. It was rude. And, one doesn’t forget such a happening.
Rain blossomed from the ether as desert flowers to quenched sand, appearing independent of both clouds and gravity. From whence it had come, I failed to fathom. It lingered, tarried long as misty-fog, as if the concept of making haste was quite alien to its mode of thought. For both sights and aromas it was a blank canvas I suppose, one that invited the imagination to bring its easel and stand, to awaken creativity from its pensive slumbers.
Rain blossomed from the ether as desert flowers to quenched sand, appearing independent of both clouds and gravity. From whence it had come, I failed to fathom. It lingered, tarried long as misty-fog, as if the concept of making haste was quite alien to its mode of thought. For both sights and aromas it was a blank canvas I suppose, one that invited the imagination to bring its easel and stand, to awaken creativity from its pensive slumbers.
High-stacked homes shone as stars aligned. They were morse code music. They were a titan’s piano keys. They were an ever changing constant, a reassurance, an urban tranquility. Head-lamps flowed around, rosy tail-lights too. Traffic lights cycled green, amber, red, and back to green again. Though the dayshine bestowed the mountain view, the night bequeathed this sweet sight. To the city lover it is the three-six-five festive lights. In all four bonny seasons, as leaves grew, tumbled and grew once more, there they stood, a forest of gay trees.
High-stacked homes shone as stars aligned. They were morse code music. They were a titan’s piano keys. They were an ever changing constant, a reassurance, an urban tranquility. Head-lamps flowed around, rosy tail-lights too. Traffic lights cycled green, amber, red, and back to green again. Though the dayshine bestowed the mountain view, the night bequeathed this sweet sight. To the city lover it is the three-six-five festive lights. In all four bonny seasons, as leaves grew, tumbled and grew once more, there they stood, a forest of gay trees.
High-stacked homes shone as stars aligned. They were morse code music. They were a titan’s piano keys. They were an ever changing constant, a reassurance, an urban tranquility. Head-lamps flowed around, rosy tail-lights too. Traffic lights cycled green, amber, red, and back to green again. Though the dayshine bestowed the mountain view, the night bequeathed this sweet sight. To the city lover it is the three-six-five festive lights. In all four bonny seasons, as leaves grew, tumbled and grew once more, there they stood, a forest of gay trees.
High-stacked homes shone as stars aligned. They were morse code music. They were a titan’s piano keys. They were an ever changing constant, a reassurance, an urban tranquility. Head-lamps flowed around, rosy tail-lights too. Traffic lights cycled green, amber, red, and back to green again. Though the dayshine bestowed the mountain view, the night bequeathed this sweet sight. To the city lover it is the three-six-five festive lights. In all four bonny seasons, as leaves grew, tumbled and grew once more, there they stood, a forest of gay trees.
Stars, as open doorways, illuminated a camelot sky; for the romance of antiquity was abroad in the wide avenues. Of fog, there was none; of wind, the same. Yet, still and calm, in a night of serenest tranquility, I saw them eddy as if in Van Gogh’s masterpiece. My eyes dreamed their way up to the heavenly light, to an angel’s abode. With my soles planted firmly on the ground, and my head so much higher than any cloud, I felt titan-tall, how could I not?
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