morning light @ the lake
Spring was late arriving, though, in all fairness, winter was mild.
Seasons have developed the habit of turning into the next all too rapidly in my new, New England, evidenced at The Lake, my euphemism for a sweet, shallow, solitude.
I can remember a time when the color of the day was just the backdrop for a mood. The blues of the lake are slate, and the trunks of the trees are gray. The rhododendrons are green and thick and waxy.
Here and there a yellow daffodil, or traces of a forsythia, can be seen among the naked branches. Nothing is stretching. Nothing is really alive, yet, nothing is really dead either.
Sanctuary sounds of spring are more boastful than its colors in many Aprils. Like a Gregorian Mass, birds sing a more fragrant tune as the shrubbery yearn for more rain and larger, warmer, drops of sun. The chant is more engaging than the sermon.
There is a chair on the deck of this woodland cottage;
and at 10:30 the sun will drench it in a warm bath of sunlight.
I move with the angle of the sun.
Spring seems redundant.
I have seen my share.
They all become autumn.
Life, the slight dash between these two warning seasons,
A color of sadness remains long after the sun has given The Lake its new hue.
I look up from where ‘my pen teems
my gleaming brain’, and a whisper of life enters.
The skin catches the changes first,
then the eyes take it in, soon you are the new season, you are the yellows, the aquas,
and the deeper blues, and like the trees and the shrubs, you yearn for droplets of sun to saturate the season with color.