We all have days that feel like crucibles, like waking nightmares, where the ugliness of the world seems almost not to be borne. On such days we are shut off from the light in a impenetrable chiaroscuro like someone caught in a shabby, black and white Polaroid. We sense our mortality on these days more then others, taking some comfort in knowing that it is out there. Then come the flowers, light riding their gentle petals like sequins on a gown of many colors. Can anyone not take heart at the sight of a garden full of blossoms, opening their faces to look upon us with the eyes of the Goddess Herself? What matters the world of frauds and charlatans, of political buffoons and bloodless,vacillating followers when a sumptuous reality beckons in the perfect balance of the tulip, the lush stature of the peony and the endless promise of the rose. To hell with it all, I say. I am for the garden.
No comments:
Post a Comment