“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

3.30.2014

everyday sunday: march 30. nothingness and sun.


the mirror this morning showed a surprise of sunburned cheeks, yesterday's sunshine lingering behind to remind me of the sheer fabulous nothingness of the day.  sitting still in the sun equaled hot, moving to dappled shade meant sweaters needed when the wind was up.  we did both.

my neighbor calls this the strange non-blooming spring.  dogwoods are blossoming, and here and there some azaleas; pear trees are recuperating from the ice storm, leafing out again, but so many empty limbs are still scratching against the sky.  from the couch right now, i think i see baby leaves hatching on the hackberry tree, and possibly the wisteria; the pecan tree's lower limbs have nothing, but higher in the tree spring looks as if it is landing. oak trees here and there are greening up, the elms also, but not all, not everywhere.  the yard is sprouting grass and flowered weeds and should probably be mowed, but soon is soon enough.

early evening is the sound of a leaf blower, cardinals swooping past, the sun painting bright stripes down the road.  it is hard to stay inside.  i keep stepping out the open door, just standing, breathing, grateful when the leaf blowing stops and i can once again hear the birds.  they've been singing all day.

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i got lost in the day today,
one of the consequences of no maps, no rules.
i was writing and then i wasn't.

it was a morning of blackberries and strawberries, olives stuffed with jalapenos, lasagna for breakfast, warm air outside the house, pierce brosnan on the television, no fire next to the sleeping cat.  as the weather warms and the sun shines down, it becomes clear that life must be lived before words can written.  there are back roads not yet explored, conversations not yet spoken, hands still to hold, thoughts to be set free.  there are silences to savor, and robins in the yard.

the camellia tree across the street, tall and full of pinkish flowers,
curves over a corner of the roof against twilight almost night,
and the cardinals begin to fade into the color of evening,
darkest of red spilling into the grasses and trees.
sounds  . . . silence . . .  the stopping of birdsong.

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2 comments:

  1. and this is just what a springtime sunday in the south is supposed to look like. here in hilton head, leaves are falling right alongside the azaleas that are blooming and amid the dreaded (and inevitable) greenish yellow pollen. aaannnndddd it's snowing atop our mountain. (that's no metaphor.) it's crazy. beautifully, blissfully crazy. just like your words, sug.

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  2. how do you weave such magic with your words? i love your writing.

    ReplyDelete

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