MY DEAREST C.,
As I sit in the sanctuary of this tree house at six-forty-five am in the mid autumn darkness of daylight savings time, typing and sipping a very hot medium roast of cocoa and subtle spice of Guatemala Antigua, softly and quietly illuminated by the candles in the window and the twinkle lights from the terrace, the grounds below invisible and the wood, beyond the bay window I am facing, but a mere phantom, I feel gratitude for this measurable measure of equanimity.
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All posts for the month October, 2013
HIGH SEASON
As the chlorophyll wanes
Ochre sage blanches high
The Wood is all fane
The axis tilts by.
VELVET CRUSH
With errands waning
And the hours gaining
Embraced seclusion
Poured premium infusion
Preferred writers read
Responses in head
Rich and expansive
Savory castellation live
Return to the few
In answer I do
Between lush sips
O’er approachable lips
The wine stands alone
Honoring authors I’ve known
Structured Cabernet Sauvignon
The rush coming on
Paired perfectly Velvet Crush
The afternoon before the rush…
WINTERLY
It has begun
A summer sun
Slinking southward in the sky
As chlorophyll does die
A frost is on the air
With temperature spare
The growing season gone
Shroud of winter won
UNMASKED
Cloaked in a pall of heavy dark velvet I whisperingly stride one step at a time, retiring to a deep seclusion – pestilence raging most furiously abroad. A lighted candelabrum braced in my right hand and a brace of an august cask of ruby red wine under my left arm, and the stems of two globular glasses locked between the ring, middle and pointer fingers of the left hand, upward on the spiral staircase, short of the catwalks and turrets pausing on the castellated central middle floors of an imperial suite, a long and straight vista without colourful tapestries or golden ornaments, conceivably to find my phantasm therein; with neither desire of ingress or egress and without the folly of grief I pour the wine at a gray weathered farm table illuminated humbly by the candlelight. Somewhere without, a pendulum swings, it’s monotonous clang nearly muffled by the verdant canopy surrounding the stronghold. Tall in habiliments darker and more dense than mine own the phantom of the castle of my mind enters and silently we salute each other with a clink of the fine hand blown glass and then a long draft of the rich spicy shiraz, and with the music unhushed, toast again, paying tribute to dissolution at bay.
A MASK OF SNOW
It is still green
Remains to be seen
If this will be
The winter we’ll see
A mask of snow, keen.
Still wet…
The Canopy
The verdant cloak, inching closer to the bay window overlooking the head of the St Jones River where I write, is glistening with the continuing precipitation – each leaf a sparkling emerald – droplets the size of quarter dollars rap and tap on the sky-light at the apex of the vaulted ceiling of my tree house. The verdure is eerily still while starry openings reveal a silver-gray yonder. The usually sun-bleached white walk is tan, colored by the moisture that refused to cling to the lush vegetation that drapes an arbor of branches like long arms and fingers reaching, reaching until autumn and then winter, perforce, amend the green and disrobe the wooden structures.
– Robert Pennington Price
