Well, friends, I’ve been blogging…but mostly in my head, several have been completed in my imagination; but time passes on, so today I thought I would put a medley of no certain association together here. Think of it as a stream of consciousness.
During the full moon most recently past, I drove home at twilight. On my right was a rosy hazed skyline with the sun just having dropped below the horizon as I was heading South. In the deepening blackberry jam twilight sky was a glowing butterpat of the risen moon in the east, on my left hand. In the distance ahead the farmers were gathering in the sheaves, but in today’s world it was the bright lights of the harvester taking down the wheat. They left little behind except the shaven beard stubble of the field, still golden, but bereft of it’s fruitfulness.
The air was freshened in that way that a summer evening brings a coolness and wipes away even the dust rising off a field being mowed. The horses in the pastures moved far off to the edges, as if to be beckoned by the call towards their ancestral freedoms, calling them to gallop into the west…far, far way from their fences and bridles. As I arrived home, the alfalfa field had had it’s second mowing and was left to dry. It was later that the farmers were gathering it into long piles striping the field in giant designs that only God and airplanes can see. My eye followed the lines of saged green and my nose sniffed that sweet greened smell.
The peacefulness pervaded my soul like honey sinking into warm toast, melting within me mellowly. I savor such times, they seem so rare. At this time of my life I drink them, I roll them about within, like something sweet in the mouth and smooth on the tongue.
The rains came while I was gone for the weekend, having returned home the garden reminded me of my obligations to weeding and cultivation, and I slipped easily back into the yoke. An old ox used to the labor, trained to the cycle of the seasons.
I’m happy with my containers of flowers and turn a blind eye to the front garden which never did get the renovation work planned for this year… it will get it’s attention later, I tell myself. I don’t yet know if this is truth or blind hope on my part. I have pictures galore and imagined articles written, only needing the time and effort to put it all into a place of virtual reality. I am moving through my life like through a Medieval garden, in sections with perceived purposes that are carved like blocks of the apothecary’s plantings. Some coming to fruit and harvest, some still growing to fullness, some done and cut for another day, preserved, but placed into the attic of my mind.
Tags: time, rural