For two days the sun hides behind the counter-battle of grey skies and clouds teasing a fantastical but never occurring downpour. But hare self has become unconcerned, the sun will return, the shelled ones are in command. I turn to ponder turtle and tortoise, the shells I have seen.
Colourful, large and fuzzy…their work is considerably important to all humanity. They are of the kind…the pollinators…without them there would be no crops, no wildflowers. Honeybees too are important, but bumbles can fly in cooler temperatures and operate with lower light levels. Honeybees and associated beekeeping was declared a war essential and beeswax was used to replace petroleum products to waterproof ammunition and as a replacement for sugar, which was rationed.
And so, it is to be a selection of six – white, green, orange, red, yellow with blue, blue with yellow…ribbons…a string to a hand…to remain grounded for hope – to let go for higher aspirations. And yet we have matchsticks and petrol cans. Have you got some time for me…that it could come to this?
…an important reminder, for any day, that no matter how we sculpt and paint the past for easier digestion hurt remains within the deep and supple layers of our engineering of the decay. My encounter with Behnke’s past on this cold frozen bee day…reminds me that within the peace I search remain the percussions of conflict.
I thought my challenge, during these days of the morphing spiked menace, to be memory…but the opposite is true, the challenge is the desire for new memory (because I cannot travel). I find that time away from place has left me wanting for the feel of these landscapes. I yearn for the turf, the stone, the trail.
Cheesetwist was used to Munchabit and his ways. Always prepared she carried encouragements and promises of what might be found on the other side. It steadied Munchabit who needed much steadiness.
People helping people, filling sandbags, finding comforts, waiting, hope, worry, searching amidst the loss, new friends, the military is here (or has returned). Stop the water…move the people…save the livestock….save the sturgeon, evacuate, evacuate…find higher ground as sirens wail their haunting scream. In the worst of times the best of us found.
Once sneering towards the operatic…but what wisdom comes with age…perhaps gentle ears finding joy in the sound of balanced voices. What joy is this but my own and what more can there be save perhaps the joy shared with others. These works are someone’s work…their work…their effort…so much easier to cast shadows then light…bring me the light, we will shine, we will soar.
In my soft eyed way my eyes close as the black beret of a Desert Rat returns…the aged sailor whose cap of the Atlantic, like him, is no longer with us and the elder swagger of the pilot whose awards danced swing mounted from his chest. Many I knew to speak to…to share, sometimes once a year, sometimes often…
Sometimes you walk to write…and bring a camera too…just in case those images of fall might work for this night. And so I wander about the Thanksgiving homes…a tune within my head. I sense the streetscapes and homes quieter than normal…still…pandemic and all…cars are in front of homes…people at the table. The turkey and all…good chatter. In seeking the colour in the leaves I happen to see one family at the table…its good to see as I wander on past the crescent moon.