Tuesday, April 12, 2011
I wish I could capture in words the evanescent beauty of this spring evening. The air is refreshed by a light rain, the light is muted, and the white wisteria and dogwood glow in the muted air. Everything is saturated with green, and the wisteria's scent hovers above the uncut grass. A mourning dove coos somewhere in the distance, reminding me of my grandmother's house, where as a child I listened to the doves' mournful cries and felt drawn to distant, unknown destinations. Is it time or distance I wish to step into? The most beautiful things are those glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, gone before grasped, lost but remembered. Is this what age brings in its wake: the perception of all those transcendent moments that could not be held, could not endure? Is there an aged memory that gathers up the white petals that have fallen like a benediction? The light fades, the white blooms retreat into dark shadows, where they wait for eternity.