Posts Tagged ‘Dreams’
In the dusk, the wildflowers sing, surrendering their colors to the cloud-heaped sky. The melody is ancient and flute-like, rising from the earth as it has for untold generations and carrying all their joy.
The song calls in the night, and the birds of the night and the insects sing it, too. And soon the sky carries all the colors away and everything fades but the music. And stars come, and shower their light down to the flowers, and to the birds, and to all the earth’s children, and it blesses them with sweet and shimmering dreams.
The first bank of storm clouds floated toward the eastern sky, leaving in their wake a field of sleepy flowers. In the west, the sun dipped behind a second, deepening heap of clouds, but not without saying goodbye.
To the flowers, it all seemed a dream now, the rain, the glow of the sinking sun, the cool air. They surrendered their colors for the night, lending them to the passing clouds.
As they drifted more fully into their dreams, a lullaby sang to them. It was a high, soft, sweet song and it enveloped all the creatures of the earth. Even those whose ears could not detect the sound felt its benevolence in their hearts. It sang the names of every one of them, wishing them peaceful hearts, and assuring them that they were deeply loved. And the flowers sighed with happiness and slept, wrapped in serenity and fragrant joy.
The white hot sun still blazes. But now the tide begins to rise, and with it a subtle change permeates the atmosphere. The worst of it is over. The heat is tempered, the humid air sliced by a wisp of breeze.
It’s only a matter of hours now until the night settles in. Then stars will spread themselves above this sea and all will be dreams, and the moon will write her path across the water. And the tide will fall, and rise again, and fall.
You can hardly tell that it’s broke through the soil in this light, can you? But you just wait. Give it a couple weeks, a few good rains, and you won’t even be able to see those trees from here. Once it’s got its toehold, there ain’t no stopping corn.
Still, the field’s kind of pretty, isn’t it, with all the cloud shadows sweeping across it like that? Them’s the kind of clouds I loved as a boy. You could lay out on the lawn and get lost in dreams for hours, just watching them float by.
Say, you want to go see if Ma’s got any fresh lemonade made?
Shyly the small tulip opens her petals. She is the first and knows not what to expect.
The air is cool and clear. From somewhere high above music falls from the throats of birds. It is unlike any she has ever known, alive and filled with gladness.
The light is soft and fills everything. Color is everywhere, and beyond what must be the arms of trees, an infinite sky sings a morning Gloria.
She had been told that it would be more beautiful than words could tell, than any mere flower could imagine. But this, this exceeded the farthest stretches of her highest dreams. And she opens her petals and dances with joy.
As if she were preparing a table for guests, the lake covered her open places with fresh ice and the snow settled across it like pressed linen.
It fell into the cupped leaves of the brush on the lake’s banks, onto the spread boughs of the trees, into the webs of needles on the pines. It was a generous snow, blanketing every inch of the earth for miles around.
And when at last the morning came, we woke to a world so brilliant that it seemed we were still dreaming our finest, most luminous dreams.
Still, the air was crisp and cold. You never knew, when you greeted a December morning, what the day would hold.
They told their mothers about their dreams, and the mothers smiled. “What a gift!” the oak said to the little leaf. “How beautiful!” the mother pine said.
The children asked why there was no snow. And the mothers said that dreams had a timing of their own. Some of them foretold events that might take a while to unfold in our world.
“But it’s a very pretty morning, nonetheless, don’t you think?” the oak said. “Why don’t you get your friend and see what surprises the woodland might have for you today?”
And before the words had left her mouth, the little pine appeared on their threshold, eyes bright and ready for adventure. Off the two pals ran. And their mothers smiled and wondered what tales they would bring home with them today.
The nocturnal animals were waking now, and setting out for the evening’s hunt. But they were, for the most part, small, and hardly made a sound as they scurried across the fallen leaves.
But up above, mighty winds were sweeping clouds across the sky. Their leading edges were soft and sheer as if the sky were drawing a lavender veil across its face. Even in their depths, they looked powdery and light. Yet they moved at a great speed and began to gather together in growing layers.
And the oak, who had seen many seasons, watched from the edge of the hill, and knew that the sky was spinning dreams of snow.
Autumn spends her hues as if there were no end to them. Her extravagance knows no bounds. But there’s a reason for her madness. The season of monochromes follows on her heels. In the meantime, let the world be bright with color.
Let it sink into every eye and pool in every mind. And when the nights are long, let it sing in the world’s dreams.
These tones sing the symphony of the seasons and are its culmination. Breathe them into your soul and know their joy.
So many emotions filled September’s heart as she packed to leave, so much nostalgia and joy. She had seen the fulfillment of sweet Summer’s days, and the arrival of glorious Autumn. She had painted the skies with color and rain and watched the sun and songbirds begin their southerly journeys.
Now Summer’s crops were ready for Autumn’s harvest, and the fields were filled with gold.
There was but one task left to do. Looking from horizon to horizon, September gathered in Summer’s finest dreams and the highest hopes of Autumn. Then, wrapping them with love, she spun them into strands of light and fastened them to the seeds of tiny yellow flowers. They would be her legacy, carrying her best into the tomorrows that were yet to be.
Her work completed, September gazed at the beauty of the forests and fields, of the ponds and creeks, the lakes and rivers and streams, the lawns, the streets, the homes. And her gratitude spilled across the landscape in a sweep of brilliant gold, and all the world sang in joy.