Sometimes a memory can become a moment all its own. This is one such memory. |
The ground begins to refuse the rain while the sky sadly promises more. Restless clouds mill about in valleys - and drift up against hillsides before slowly moving upward to scale their earthen dam. They spill over forested ridges as if needing to feel the other side. It couldn’t have been yesterday when we shared this gathering of gray – for the naked fuzz of branches finding modesty beneath misted veil, are now flush with summer’s wooing - their green nearly black with rain. Raindrops scattering tiny prisms lend a surrealness to the scene as the clear drops mottle the clouds. Distance becomes less a matter of judgment than of instinct, time is bent by music, and memory becomes slanted by desire. I think of you in your green winter, choosing whether you would prefer to sit on white or black sand when you admire a south pacific view which has inspired words you give to lighthouses, and a love of home as great as my own. When the time has come for season’s change and for trees to again stand naked in the rain, I will return to this place and think of you - judging distance with a mermaid’s eyes, while taking your ocean’s pulse in measured tides. |