The problems are ones I seek out. A feeling of the unmovable. Down by the wild lavender, there is movement that is invisible and quite sightly. Like a hand brushing back your hair, it soothes.
The white linen against tan skin. The red of a blushing cheek, the blue of an lapis toenail. The flap of a swallows wing dashing across the glint of the full moon. Nails clipping across the floor belonging to a deaf dog. Pink sherbert clouds mix with the green shimmering tree tops bouncing in the wind.
There's something unmistakable here. An urge to take it all in, yet everyone knows it's an impossible feat. The trails are dusty with wild roses and clay, soft and supple under your soles. It all takes on a feel of the melancholic slow romance you've always waited for. So much to look at, never enough time. It's all fading fast under your fingertips and nothing captures it quite as perfectly as memory does. Fleeting in the present moment. A woman with a great laugh and an awkward chef , that you cant help but want to join when they say they're playing gin rummy just before bed. Too many questions to ask, too many rambling thoughts, show choirs stomping through heavenly grounds, a lethargy only wine and heat can task you with.
I feel a set of eyes, a perch of hesitancy in every step I take. Last night through the looming antique halls on my way to the kitchen for a treat, it felt eerily ghostly, like a spirit would be sitting in one of the gold and pink velvet-lined armchairs, asking me to take a seat and listen to their story. I would oblige, out of fear or curiosity I do not know.
Nothing is still, the tree branches lean and the leaves glitter in the breeze and the lines of vines are so straight they call you to walk in them. A surprise animal; an old dog, or a new cat lounging around the corner. They carry with them a weight of karma, your words to them mean something. Even to the coyotes - their wails - if you hear them, it's like they are meant for you, their own tale to tell, up in the canyons colored orange.
I imagine in a windstorm the whole place goes berserk. A rough structure brought to a cloud of crumbling dust at the hint of a gust. And yet… the place still stands, unmovable except for the dry grasses littering the mountains green.
Year after year we wonder if this is our last, and it is quite possible, but year after year we rejoin in our temperance. We settle in for the long haul of healing that balances our blood and raises in us a frequency we carry throughout the year. We sit with a stillness that is not always there.
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