Foolish People

People are so careless.  Cursed with negligence, they are blind to myth and choose to ignore the stories unravelling in their own backyards.

When the seasons untangle themselves, they spin across the sky on a sparkling axis – swift and blithely annual.  Astrology gave them the virtues of men and beasts, and astronomy gave them the blueprint for a yearly voyage through an expectant calendar.

Seasons are reflected in tides throttled by the muscular gravity of distant planets.  They dissolve into oceans, surrendering their warmth and color to a watery greed.   The chemistry of monthly progression weaves an embroidery of change through waves that reach towards the sky, towards the cradle of their strength.

But on earth, the seasons are there for the taking.  Winter snow, holiday molecules of divine complexity, powders the face of a pale, chilly beauty.  The perfumes of spring coat the blossoming air with pastels and genteel promises. Feline shadows stretch in the sun, sleeping in the golden liqueur of late summer.   Autumn colors – cranberry, amber, ginger and cherry – warm the planet in a crochet of harvests and earthly riches.

I was walking home not long ago – feeling the low, bronzed tremor of the oncoming equinox – when I thought I saw the lights of autumn hovering above me.  It was as if nature herself had taken the radiance and spice of the third season and held it tightly in her hands, to feel the gold and shadow pierce her ethereal skin.  And when she opened her hands again, there was a triangle of light, glowing like a captive sunset.  She reached down and hung the light on a tree, where it swung in the dusky breeze.

Light Out Of The Shadows

I watched autumn floating in the air as it waited for the symbols in the sky to speak, for the tides to leap and hide like foxes:  for its time to descend onto earth.  I watched the illumination burn inside the cathedral glass, filigreed like a Byzantine carpet.

Iron Stitching

I stood there, uninterrupted.  The people, however, stayed in their house – ignoring the microcosm of wonder glowing outside their door.  They never looked outside their window.  They never ventured into the changing air.  They were so foolish.

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7 responses to “Foolish People

  1. Many people miss so much wonder! We need to do a happy dance when we are not those foolish people! 🙂

  2. Last spring I gazed straight up into an asymmetrical view of scrapers and afternoon sky. On that busy street corner, the clear blue among layers of fluffy white and sharp silver clouds, thrilled me for more than a moment. I contemplated antique buildings and recent glass covered wonders, and thought how small they must seem from the highest reaches of that much higher vantage point. I looked down again in time to see a couple walk aound me with tsk tsk on their faces. Foolish people indeed.

  3. I can think of a particular time not long ago when I missed a spectacular show of distant lightning because I was glued to this technological thingamadoodle. With that in mind, perhaps I’ll take a break right now….

  4. Julia Simpson-Urrutia

    You are a talented writer.

  5. Lauri – I too would be dancing like a fool if it wasn’t so hot. Summer can be very restricting!

    Sparks – Just pity them. I saw the moon as my plane was landing at McCarren airport in Vegas. The smoke and molecules from the So. CA fires had turned it bright red. No one else was commenting on it, so I thought I would just continue looking out my window and watch the bright planet.

    phantomxii – Go ahead! Look out that window! We rarely get any lightning displays out here – I once saw a split of white over the hills as we drove through the desert: it was terrifying and marvelous.

    Julie – Why, thank you!

  6. Captivated by this entry. I love that “ginger” was included to describe Autumn. What a great word for it.

    And I know what you mean, that glimpse of autumn coming, that change in the air. I see it happen over the water, usually in August. I wait for it; look forward to it.

    I loved this.

    It is universal and therein, the magic.

  7. Such a rich, evocative description of yet another season we will miss – unless, of course, we look a little harder. Living in drought leads to a dessicated spirit, sucked dry by resentments and fear. There will be no autumn for us in most of Texas this year. Everything already is the brown of death, or turned into smoke.

    Here’s the truth – it’s painful to read such posts as this one, and yet we must. Your “cranberry, amber, ginger and cherry” are shining on the page, a reminder that there may yet be beauty to be seen, even here.

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