Each season has its pots of the unexpected. An iris in the back yard. The hills, vibrant green in contrast to a monochromatic gray sky. Opposites in conversation, not opposition.
Hard to imagine the monks in their country courtyards, composing little poems that last three thousand years. the walls fall down with ivy and dripping water, ancient cities full of decay and the fabled garb of a world away. roofs in the distant epicenter of all culture--songs of birds and opera. part of me longs for another ocean.
spring beckons with the scent of honeysuckle and perfume in the square. ladies shopping for fur and silks, charity balls set up their tents, and others sleep beneath bridges, blankets in the park drying out the next morning.
somehow it's making me restless, full of moving targets, circling like the bee i saw yesterday in the lavender outside my front door.
Hard to imagine the monks in their country courtyards, composing little poems that last three thousand years. the walls fall down with ivy and dripping water, ancient cities full of decay and the fabled garb of a world away. roofs in the distant epicenter of all culture--songs of birds and opera. part of me longs for another ocean.
ReplyDeletespring beckons with the scent of honeysuckle and perfume in the square. ladies shopping for fur and silks, charity balls set up their tents, and others sleep beneath bridges, blankets in the park drying out the next morning.
somehow it's making me restless, full of moving targets, circling like the bee i saw yesterday in the lavender outside my front door.