A posy of tea roses, saved from the frost, looks out the window. Warm and red, with booties planted in a tepid brew, the flowers weep for sun and roots of lasting scent. Most of the holidays have passed. Halloween, what fun. Christmas, at last, is over. New Years remains, but what of this man-made number? It is but mid-season and meaningless to life.
Outside the last bastion of Fall, a drowsy Bartlett reflects upon the glass. Muted yellow and nearly naked, tiny snowflakes sit in the cup of leaves, growing heavy, wet, stiff. Every year the bole bends a spite more, wary of the promised Spring.
A morning sky fills with clouds, perpetually stuck at Eight. The silence cracked by gliding birds, needing refuge in the evergreens. Always this testing of strength and will. Man says the color of Death is black, but hear this: Under the hours of Moon, the End dons skirts of crystal and sings this dirge. Who shall survive; who shall not? Who is worthy? Which of them that are, if any, shall go forward?
Were the hot sands, warm currents and sweet embrace only a dream I dreamt? The season of sleep and waiting, cold and bitter, has just begun. May time awaken the napping world. May this hardship pass. May I be counted when Sol resurrects the seeds, when Summer crisps the fields again. For I am. The rill of life, warm and red, is with me, and I am with it still.
Author’s Note: I call it Tourette’s Writing—Forgive me for misusing the term, but sometimes I have inexplicable bouts of prose, compulsive bursts of emotion. Most of the time these afflictions happen when I’m suppose to working on a re-write. All writers are given to a little mood writing from time to time. Few of them share it, including me. Usually I just stuff these pieces in the big left-hand drawer of my desk, but this time I thought: What the hey. Maybe I’ll just add a new category to the old blog. It would make it easier to locate them when I need a little ambiance here and there….CM.