the rain tree sprawl endomes the whole street. folks miss the light show and its leafy glory, while enjoying coolness.
scintillant stream, ever-shifting dance of light: seemingly random, but so seems a music box drum until one knows its tune
morning light catches the moss, and i see it for the first time
My walk is in the early hours, in dawn's buttery light. There's a gold glint to all that's pale, whether a wall of white or waters of a placid lake or eucalyptus trunks or on the waving Pampas grass or on the robes of monks. And by the time I've lost that light, the walking hour is done. And I'll be looking forward to when next the day is dun.
deep in the cavern just beyond the light's reach lives what might be
Living like a Morlock, outside the shaft of light. Lured beyond walls of rock. Mesmerized by blue sky. Loving the thought of blue, but burnt by the mere sight. Praying for an Eloi view, but feeling it's not my right.
long autumn shadows stretch across the pavement and it might just be that everything has stretched out time and thought and hope and love and life and mystique all smeared across the day like shadows smear across the ground it's a slowing of the mundane as the mood grows sadder winter's melancholy is moving on the wing
under storm clouds bright silver light shines like headlamps through fog
i see a leaf amid leaves
the tree is covered in creepers
these leaves churn out power
— silently —
each leaf making miniscule food,
but there are so many —
and so many hours of daylight,
and they take no breaks
they sit in tight clusters
waving in wind
still in stillness
— but ceaselessly working —
until the day is done
and i can’t help but wonder whether they have leafy dreams, and — if so — what a tree’s dreams feel like?