I didn’t have to ask. They were and had already been speaking, waiting for a heart to be attuned to timeless truths. The grassses and purples and expanse and silence and sun clearly spoke of a way of being, intoxicating and euphoric and simple and reminiscent. I was wooed by nature’s resident mystics.
The trees taught me to reach out.
Extend yourself and stretch yourself. Be something for someone. Whether listening ears to a songbird’s morning litany or a refuge from the sun’s bullying.
Mantras of loyalty to stranger and old friend bind their being.
The little girl, makes her plight, to shade and protect through moments of passing. The avid book reading depends on your faithfulness to accompany pages of adventure and tear-induced writings. And we all know you to be the arm we can trust as we swing back and forth to gravity’s invisible dominion. “Lean out,” the trees say. “Show up for everyone.”
The flowers didn’t console me beforehand, but thankfully wrote me into the ownership and stewarding of admiration. I’m now entitled to beauty and all it’s beholdings. They give me a new definition of self-disclosure, where everyone has already been invited into complete exposure to delight. They offer themselves so liberally and willingly: “Please take a pedal, take and pick. We’re yours to smell and toss, revere and let be, or bind and gift for the heart of your love.” They benevolently hold and hug the barren, uncovered ground “to reteach a thing its loveliness” (Kinnell). “Be selfless,” they say. “Remind others of their beauty.”
Clouds make a mockery of the arts, and their well-manicured, lethargic progression through time, meddling all genres in a day. I feel they need all that billow and fluff and cushion to soften their oneriness. Sometimes opting for minimalism in acute, archetypal drifts or void-embellished space in expectation. You’ve had thousands of suns and moons to introduce and erase your work. With a ob description “to captivate,” I’m sure therein lies divine protection from artist’s block. Empty skies are ust time spent churning color combinations behind the curtains of mountains. Reprised colors and hues, seemingly archived away from the past few generations of onlookers, stir anticipation and attentiveness. Fleeting masterpieces in extravagance. Castles built for moments. The earth plays the part of easel, commissioned by the sky. Horizon, graciously agrees to mantle their works on his shoulders. I’m sure the imposed man-made streaks leave them haughty at our feeble attempt to participate, slightly annoyed at our intrusion. “Be creative,” taunt the clouds.”The world needs your stroke and song.”
Maybe I can be contemplative meets youthful lover. Here’s to a “poetic instants.”