The little mimosa by the cedar has six leaves, a rich orange, leaning towards red. The tiny birch less than two feet away also has six — the top three are green, the fourth is yellow-green, and the two near the ground are yellow. The color references are crude approximations. Set in the wilderness as they are, among grasses, ground covers, mushrooms, and a scattering of needles, cones, and other kinds of leaves and debris, these young tender beings are part of a fall vision, or dream. The scene changes by the hour. Nutrients are being transported and stored. Spent cells are breaking down and being shed. We see it as color, inhale its scent, and feel ourselves transformed. Moment by moment, the very same processes are going on within us. We are not solid. We are not stationary. We are of the earth, the earth is of the galaxy, the galaxy is of the universe, the universe is of life, and life is a clear reflective raindrop with a mysterious and miraculous beating heart. These too are crude approximations. But how else are we to describe such an intricate dance, in which places and identities are being exchanged mid-tune and mid-step?
November 26, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Beauty, Birches, Cedars, Consciousness, Diaries, Fall, Journals, Mimosas, Wilderness, Words