When I’m quiet, when I’ve stopped the spin and taken one of those long breaths, just closing my eyes and listening inward, I’ve tumbled first upon the snaggy urging boundary edges of daydream, poignant enough–
The prospect is entrancing of a snug and benign century farmhouse with well kept barns for critters and printing & artmaking equipment respectively, golden fields and wooded slices of hillside stretching away, wandering leaf trails, dirt roads, waterways heralded by the cry of red-winged blackbirds, skies wide with song, weather & stars.
And then I’m recalled to the vivid present I inhabit most concretely, surely wonderful enough, daily life prone to glorious excesses of exuberance.
The witnessed world everywhere rife with texture and poetry.
Having entered into a painterly season, we wake grudging the darker face of the alarm clock, grasp after stray bits of daylight wherever we discover them trapped in puddles.
Light plays indeed, plain showoff.
And I aspire to a bolder flavor, fresh with the juice of bright growing.
