The ash marks the path that leads to the house caught in its boughs are scraps of blue sky robin-egg blue a pigeon or two where white-wispy cloud’s a-dangle with jays chattering, joyous garrulous gang and all through the bright spring a nightingale sang.
These last soft days, warm as cat-fur, are days of ladybird-spangle, russet as turning leaves, as leaping flames, swarming on window panes, creeping across the clear blue sky, gathering for the long sleep before the dark.
When the leaves are drying, curling, rattling in the rising wind, sharp as the gunshots that ring from side to valley side, autumn’s beauty marred by brutes, it’s hard to remember
~ spring ~
bird racket and squirrels leaping where leaves unfurl, the stream racing after the rains, light falling bright and green, falling on a mallard turning in the flood, her chicks bobbing boats in a baby’s bath, their new voices thrilling.
Pain is always present in the cold bite of the wind, early morning, and the dead leaves swirling, the bones, too many, too sharp beneath the old cat’s fur, the deaths and the regrets, too many, too late. They never go, the needle-pointed jabs of memory, the jolt of absences, the ghosts at the elbow, when the laughter gets too free, and the light seems so bright it will never fade. There is a reason in the ache but not a remedy, a wound but not a lesson, a scar but not a healing. The animal curls around the hurt, seeks not to measure good times against bad, to remember. Our pain is the shadow behind the sun; without it would we even feel its golden warmth?