Spring Play

The salmon-on-pewter atmosphere is appropriately thundery as raindrops splish into the pool where gathering grains of butter-hued pollen swirl on the surface in liquid paisley patterns. Andrew vacuumed when he was home last week and he has left the pump running; when I walk outside its low monotonous thrum reminds me of coming hot, hot summer days when music and laughter and the sound of waterplay will serve as a joyous counterpoint to sun beat and cicada buzz.

There is not a bad seat in the house.

I look around. The final curtain has dropped on a winter whose run was short and lacking in drama; tender shoots and timid blossoms peek 'round the velvety fringed folds like precocious junior thespians eyeing center stage. Greenness, colors both pale and vivid, and inimitable perfumes burgeon with all the suspense and promise of a brilliantly-acted prologue. Winged choristers watch from the sky and the branches, ears tuned to their staggered cues. There is not a bad seat in the house.

The warmth and the rain will each nourish what the other brings forth. Each bloom and blade, each petal and leaf, each butterfly and robin, each newborn thing in turn will share the spotlight, the glory, the applause and the rave reviews. The show will go on. The engagement will be long.

Comments

[Adam J. Whitlatch]

Beautiful imagery. Exactly what I've come to expect from you, Jenny. I especially loved the opening line "salmon-on-pewter atmosphere."

:)