Letters from Home (9) Acres of Gold
My Dearest Zoe,
As dry as the weather was in the first half of July,
it has been overly wet during the last two weeks. Sad
looking corn on the farm has a renewed freshness to it,
tassels have opened on most of the corn now, renewing hope
for a good harvest. If the rain continues for a few more
weeks, farmers will be able to smile for the rest of the
year!
The corn has grown so nicely that I am now separated from
signs of the world by 28 acres of six foot tall green and
gold. Every time I drive out the lane, I see any number of
the usual "suspects" around the far: deer, fox, rabbits,
raccoons, all heading in for the feast. It might be my imagination,
but it looks like they are all happy and full-bellied!
Just the other day I found a half-eaten ear of corn in the woods.
Someone is either a picky eater or was just in a hurry.
It's nice having all of the fresh-grown privacy, I get
very used to being able to escape the traffic, the noise
of everyday goings-on. Maybe I get to rely on my little
island of peace too much because I know that I'll regret
the day that the harvester shows up and the corn, my shield,
will disappear.
You have to be ready to be reborn; you have to be ready.
Love,
Uncle Roy
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Updated: 12:35 AM GMT on July 29, 2012
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Here and There
"We never see this many stars",
They said
As Venus, Jupiter, Antares winked down.
A hint of the Summer's Milky Way
Still lay in mystery
Even after my hand waved across the sky
Tracing the path.
And then, finding Polaris/North seemed a miracle
To someone unfamiliar with dark nights.
A few days later... home,
I felt at ease in an ocean of distant light
Where two bears stood beside
A milky river of stars
Eternally waiting for a fish to jump.
The scorpion's heart throbbed red,
Two sister planets had yet to rise.
Dark was the night,
But empty it was not.
The wailing sirens
Now are happily replaced
By screeching owls.
Seeing
Every idea starts with a blank page,
A clear mind.
Gradually the canvas fills with the color of
Inspiration,
Just as every reality starts with whiteness
But ends in a living splash of color.
A scorching sun rises through humid mist of morning
(The summer-hazed sun, in the shimmering heat
Has an opaline eye).
Drought-dried leaves rattle in the wind
(The rustling of wind through the trees,
Floods a waterfall of whispering leaves).
There is the eye, and there is the heart,
Imagination is the difference.
"Imagination is the one weapon in the war against
reality." Jules de Gaultier
