(no subject)
Viewing the weather from the relative safety of a coffeehouse, I'm reminded of spring storms in the countryside where I grew up, and watching ancient elm trees thrash in the wind. There would always be the lichen-strewn piles of branches and leaves, the muddy ponds in the driveway, and the occasional tree toads hugging the eave drains.
I can smell the iris and columbine, soaked underneath the pine trees; I can touch the Eliotous earth and feel the dried tubers yawning.
The bedroom windows would be open, so I could hear the rain, feel the winds, smell the dampness, and watch the grey patina course overhead toward the east and the farm fields I was always told to never explore when I was a child.
I would play piano to the sound of the rain; I would draw to the sound of the rain; I would lie in bed and wonder about the imaginary worlds in my head while the Deluge fell around me.
Waking up this afternoon, I checked online to see what my bank account held . . . Miracles of miracles! Financial glories earned through overwork and tenacity, and the debts finally paid. The idea of not having to worry about the beck-and-call of debtors and law firms and credit reports, the sight of three digits transforming to four and remaining there . . . I can smell the gardens of earthly delights, and there is a faint scent of hope.
I can smell the iris and columbine, soaked underneath the pine trees; I can touch the Eliotous earth and feel the dried tubers yawning.
The bedroom windows would be open, so I could hear the rain, feel the winds, smell the dampness, and watch the grey patina course overhead toward the east and the farm fields I was always told to never explore when I was a child.
I would play piano to the sound of the rain; I would draw to the sound of the rain; I would lie in bed and wonder about the imaginary worlds in my head while the Deluge fell around me.
Waking up this afternoon, I checked online to see what my bank account held . . . Miracles of miracles! Financial glories earned through overwork and tenacity, and the debts finally paid. The idea of not having to worry about the beck-and-call of debtors and law firms and credit reports, the sight of three digits transforming to four and remaining there . . . I can smell the gardens of earthly delights, and there is a faint scent of hope.