As the days grow longer and the nights shorten, I feel further and further from her. With the light she borrows from the harsh bright sun, she shows me the true details and beauty of the land in front of me and at my back, with only the necessary amount of her reserved rays of bluewhite light, shining through her as a jewlers light through an uncut gemstone. Her light casts shadows where shadows are due while lighting the path through these wooded hallows leaving a winding serpent of a corridor whose molted skin takes place of the leaves that crunch and crackle beneath my guided steps, its scales as stepping stones to help navigate the babbling brook that splits the forest in twine. She knows this true beauty is too powerful to be repeated as often as the suns dancing overrated show, so it is kept as a seldom revealed treat to the selective audience waiting for her return. She welcomes us to her gallery with an open face only for a few showings a month. The times of the year when her time grows short, are the times the corperation of the sun, pushes into hiding, the private artist. So those of us that receive invitations to her midnight gatherings, cherish and graciously accept them with hands quivering with carefully withheld, childish excitement. And though she may cancel for rain or cloud, we care not as these delays and cancelations only build our anticipation, strengthening the bond we feel as our beautiful host wishes to put on the perfect, most well refined show for us, her selectively chosen audience.
Posted on: Fri, 28 Mar 2014 12:25:38 +0000
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