Tonight the darkness entrances her, leaving her veins filled with cold blood and heavy arms.
Her thoughts crossed over each other daringly, sending shivers through her skin and making her hair erect and aware; convincing her more and more of the things she should never believe but almost does. The only thing she can see is her morphed shadow stretched ahead of her, accompanied by the jittery streets filled with weary laughter and endless chatter, listening to the racing engines as the headlights blind her teary eyes.
She can only hear her jaded feet hit the cracked cement, yet her toes keep pressing deep into shoe and she trails on.
She keeps walking into the night, blanketed by a dark sky filled with mystery as the cool wind pushes her on like tumbleweed.
I wish I was from the sixties…
Looking up at the purple night sky looking for guidance to bring prosperity at peace. Twirling and skipping to Harrison’s album to capture and hold the world’s gaze into reality.
What surrounded them. The rights and lives to the people.
Sneaking into my room ripping my jeans into daisie-dukes. Throwing a bandana up and around my hair to show off my face, rebelling against societal views and wishes.
Gathering my friends together around the tapestry, playing and trying new things (perhaps some things that created a funky smell while making me feel at ease) while fingers glided against the acoustic string to generate words into song; humming poetry into melody; singing loudly to forget the pains of the world.
Grabbing a vanilla milkshake at the diner down the way that was home to the savory smell of deep fried oil that held the infamous delicicases such as frenchfries, hamburgers, and my personal favorite, the cheeseburger, that served to feed the land.
The waitress roller blading up to the driver’s side hanging a tray on the window as the 1966 Chevy radio elicicts louder sound,
And just then, Lennon’s voice filled the evening sky.
“But we all shine on.”
I wept when I glimpsed out of my bedroom window this morning. The garden is gone. Parched. Destroyed. The arid Wichita heat continues to flood the central lands of Kansas, pulverizing any sign of life that can no longer be nurtured.
The picket fence that once protected mother’s beloved sunflowers bathes in the scorching sun, losing its gentle white glow, buried by lifeless dirt. Mother said that it is hard to harvest lately, and that the McKinley’s are soon shutting down their ranch down the road and moving east. “But why mother?” I asked. “Because it’s time for the McKinley’s to share their cattle with the rest of the world.” But I knew that wasn’t true. Mother always said what she had to make me understand in a fruitful way. She always said so with a warming smile, shining lovingly under her beautiful draped sunhat with a big black ribbon tied neatly on the front. But something was off; I could tell by the way the wind carried the land that morning.
“It’s time to go,” Mother whispered in my ear as I lay still on my mattress, listening to the wind howl and carrying the particles of nutrient-less dust across the once flourishing land. “It’s time to say goodbye to our garden.”
I heard Farmer McKinley whispering to Minister Raven at the farm stand late last August one day when I was trying to sell some of Mother’s cherry tomatoes fresh off the vine for five cents a piece. “Things ain’t looking good Frank,” I heard him grumble under his tobacco pipe. “We oughta move the cattle farther east before the dust storms completely wipe us out.” I cringed. I knew the dust storms were severe, but I didn’t quite believe how badly it was affecting our village—our state—our country. “The soil just ain’t the same here anymore Billy,” Minister Raven said back. “Mother Nature is only making the good ol’ Depression that much worse.”
Walking home along the dusty dirt roads that late summer day, I noticed how bland our village was becoming. The horses no longer neighed. The gardens weren’t overgrown with corn, beans, and barley. The fresh scent of sunflowers and magnolias no longer lingered. Kansas was changing, and Mother kept saying how great the land is back east for farming. “Just imagine how great our garden could be!” Mother would say to me when she saw me pick up a withering sunflower off the ground. And in that moment, I accepted the change. I knew it would be okay, as long as Mother and I had a garden, our garden, our home. “We will be able to share our flowers with the rest of the world.”
The buttercups embedded the tall green grass,
Radiating a summer glow;
trickling up the rocky hill to the flat top of the hill.
The world is open. The sky sings. The mountains curve,
melting into the pale blue haze hovering below the sky.
I have the urge and eagerness to write I’m almost craving to feel the tangible feeling of the pencil between my left index and forefinger, but everything that I compose does not forge together and mesh the way that I want it to.
The rain made me very lethargic and eery today– I’m not sure why. Normally I praise the rain as it serves as a soothing sound as it plummets down against the glass windows and gravel, but today it brought weariness with it.
The horses could sense it too. They plowed across the damp ground heavily. Their rhythmic four-beating hoofs permeated the earth as they ran down from the top of the hill, seeking comfort and shelter under sagging the White Pines.
Everything was on edge. Even the wind would not stop howling. The only thing that rings with the wind tonight is the ticking of the Grandfather Clock hanging on the unlit wall.
The June sun highlights the greens in the leaves and the soft grass, radiating a glow of evergreen and warmth.
The garden plants in the window sill sit quietly against the glass, eliciting their pale blue colors and deep magentas as the sun churns past ten, eleven, and then twelve.
The forest sits still and slumbers as the gentle summer breeze brushes against the birch trees, sending the White-breasted Nuthatches and Finches in flight against the warming summer air.
Everything is alive: symbolizing the importance of unity, connection, instinct, and life.
The comforting smell of warm Vermont bacon, J’s homemade pancakes, and tapped Vermont Maple Syrup floods the house this morning. Mother is finishing her final touches around the house in an effort to perfect B’s celebration party today. I’m sitting on the edge of the shallow gray deck, letting the sunshine warm my back as the grass serves as a natural cushion for my aching feet.
The birds sing to each other in happiness today. Even the cats roll in the grass and sunbathe in the auburn sun, flickering their ears as a Red-Bellied woodpecker pecks the chipped bark on the Hemlock Northern Hardwoods at the forest line, mirrored by the trickling of the forest stream curving between the mossy stones, echoed by the singing of the bush grasshoppers.
All is well, all is silent. The only thing to be heard is nature’s voice; replenishing the earth as it flourishes underneath the blanket of the pale blue summer sky.
I am waiting for the storms to roll in. It’s been calm all day. Still. Silent.
The grass is holding the day’s humidity, still damp as I walk across it. It cools my tired feet for a minute.
Every once in a while the wind whistles through the forest trees, roaring gently, whispering to the woods.
Crickets chirping, birds singing;
Waiting for the evening storm to come.
Soon the Northern Forest will be sprinkled with raindrops,
Glimmering in the crescent moonlight,
as the storm clouds dissolve into the starry night.