On Nature

On Nature

There are places in this existence that can only be described as truly alive.

Where the air speaks, flowers blush, waters writhe and each plant clamors in chorus, unified by the strict hand of the elemental conductor.

Nature’s orchestra is strung together by vines and roots, that are deaf to conformity and destined to pulsate. The meekness or perhaps the naivety of her song is so utterly tempting to be fooled into. The endless script without a page, the pen that is not limited to a line or fluidity but the notes and marks consume everything that has the ability to move. Harmonies are effortless and melodies lie like vast ribbons, layered into the curves of the world that are impossible to define. Silence has its own voice, for the nothing waits until all else has inhaled to be heard, gently puckering at the empty void.

Where can we begin now?

Leaf symbols chime their glassy teardrops, stinging their chimes into the pale sky. Wrapped grass tongues lick crystalized dew, while gatherings of slender reeds bend their legs in a  sullen waltz. Long bodies with hyperbolic heads throw themselves forward to smear their reflection before retreating back to make the next note. A single spruce holds thousands of impatient needles primed, attuned and intertwined for their monophony that swells, the notes interlock to verses vehemently and hesitating to pause.

Cedarwoods anchor their bows downward, unclasped toes erupt from the sodden soil persistent to carry  their own score where all ears can listen. Strumming branches banish the crumpled bodies of yesterday’s song away, yielding fresh green linen from their gnarled skin. Musicians that hold no memory, yet are inexorable to beseech anew. Their sound is familiar but it is obtuse to think that each composition is anything other than unique.  Wooden melodies drift in their perpetual vulnerability, vigilant for the winds ensemble to distill, the silent solo, a foreordained balance that even a sinewed heart knows to expect it. Yet it is still caught unawares in the gaping wound of its arrival.

Heavy beds of swollen heather beat, the percussionist flowers canter like coloured enamel. Rouge lips flicker, with blackened eyelashes held tightly in their palms. Vermillion vipers snap. Orange melts into magenta, voluptuous petals weighted with their waxen shields. Yellow stems spew into bulbs of proportionate electricity. Imperative and perhaps the most paramount exudes the shades of untold viridian. Chartreuse chastises the fermenting umber, slithers of sage multiply to mimic the distant wilderness. Tessellated carpets run forward embedded onto the warm crust, encasing the pregnant earth with a primer, a rhythmic pitch. Awkwardly welcome are the powdered azures the barbarous blues smoulder their cumbersome airs, improvising against the collateral pallette. The fanciful violets and smouldering pinks are burdened with the higher bells, ornamented and vivacious. These noble participants are quiet in their glutinous emergence but humble and subservient to their muse and master.

A compulsion of shivers slice, the strings are the veins that elevate. Embodied by the seething rays of sunlight that pierce and glide, a slender body of auburn that disintegrates into a blinding white, infesting each cell to almost burst into expiration. The sun suffocates and revives symmetrically. It is the first to tune the rest and the last cymbal of the day.

It is painfully relentless, so horrifically pure that the word seems wounded to be used for such perfection. Its boundless capacity to conjure and create will forever torment the human children that dare tread within it. For we are both ephemeral, we are persistent in our determination to vanquish the unavoidable insatiable dawn. But one can not help but wonder that these creatures that burrow, spawn and blossom know something unseen to our hollow eyes. They do not look up at the taunting sky and desire to proceed it or scratch away at their own skin-clad bonds. They excel on that omittance, they even thrive on it. And furthermore, they produce in a way that a human hand can never outstrip. To mimic and applaud is our spherical prison. We are controlled by a home that is so catastrophically free. There has to be some hilarity in that if you dare to be the first one to break a  laugh.

The scaredity of the green beasts, the giants, the atmospheric specters profit in ways we can not understand, an ambition to release ourselves from such hopes are stagnant. Be resolved that we are, for this very moment the flesh that exists beside the leaf, and we exist alone on this tired and aging earth.

Using Format