Golden Glorious


It was her first sunset. All on her own. She dipped her brush and set its tip against the sky. She painted a fiery glow behind slate-grey clouds, lining their edges with light. Beneath the clouds, she then hung the glowing orb of the sun in all its bittersweet dragonfire, drawing it lower and brighter with all the delicacy of a single hair. Its glow spread like a flower opening its petals against the ever-darkening clouds that blanketed above.

It was slow yet quick work, the splendor only there for a few moments but the painting of its descent painstaking and detailed nevertheless. Finally, all that remained of the light were amaranthine clouds, their undersides touched with pearly pink, the golden glory now replaced with an amberesque awe.

The sun drawn down, the air turning blue with night cool, she lifted her brush away. The deed was done, the masterpiece painted. She just hoped that, maybe, someone had been watching. Maybe someone had enjoyed her work. Her first sunset.

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While the resplendence of the light still warmed the flush of her cheeks, the pictures flew from her phone like rapid fire. Pictures of this glorious sunset witnessed from where she had sat on the hood of her car, letting the evening deepen and cool around her. The groceries could wait. This had been more important and definitely more beautiful.

Sunset


The final moments of the day hover at the edge of the world like a last belch from the throat of a great dragon.

A dragon that would gobble up all of Time.

And it does, swallowing the Day down and exhaling Night in return.

Its flame eats itself opposite to the custom, breathing out velvet smoke where, once, fire burned bright.

Sneaky Houses


On the way to my girl’s preschool, just across from the golf course, there is a row of houses. These houses are all set back from the road a bit, their driveways curving down into little valleys with the buildings nestled behind and in the deep cool green of ancient trees. My husband calls them “sneaky houses”.

I love sneaky houses. I love how they nestle there behind the treeline, screened, protected, and partially hidden. You can see them but only if you’re looking. If you’re not paying attention, you’d drive right by them. They hide there in plain sight, their beauty just barely peeking out. You have to look for them to find them. I also love that they are like people, particularly the people who have become the dearest and most special to me. Just like those sneaky houses, if we can look past what barriers people have been erected, the protections that have been hewn out, sink into the deepness of them, we may just find them even cozier and more welcoming than we originally thought.

Yes, I really do love sneaky houses.

BloPoMo Day 7, Post 2: “Cloud Swept Mornings”


My husband’s admonition brought my head up from where I was scrolling quickly through Facebook on our morning drive to work.

“You have to see this.”

I looked up and he was right: I did need to see it. As we crested a hill, I could see the mist hanging over the fields in the barely-there sunlight. But it wasn’t mist like I normally expect it.

Misty clouds hung  over frosted, harvested fields like great birds hovering at their nests. The frost still hung crystal-white over the stumps of shorn cornstalks, the clouds refusing to leave their charges to the burn of sunlight just yet.

They were ceilings of misty gray, high enough to drive under but low enough for you to stick your hand up and out the window and touch.

Further on back across the fields from the road, the hazy clouds blanket and veil copses of leafless trees. It is as though they are endeavoring to make up for the glory that the trees have recently shed, covering their naked branches with silken silver.

Yes, he was entirely right: I had to see it.

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The Truth on Earth, Not in the Air


It’s April and it smells like Christmas outside. It’s that cold, shimmering scent, one that promises things to come. I suppose, in that sense, Christmas and spring are similar in nature. Almost like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something. The air is cold and crisp, too much so for April for my tastes, but this is Indiana, after all. The grass is green, the trees are starting to shed their buds and press forth with leaves, albeit reluctantly, and so nature assures us of what the weather would belie:

Winter is done.

Spring is coming.

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The Memories of Raindrops and Sunbeams


The weather has a memory. It remembers how we feel, just as the sensations it generates are buried in our minds.

Mother Nature remembers what thoughtful fancies flit through your mind when the clouds look like nests composed of cotton candy.

How your heart leaps, aches, thrills, or yearns when the sunlight is just so or the cool wind caresses the back of your neck.

It remembers how the scent of fall causes anticipation to bubble up in your soul.

How a park freshly carpeted with undisturbed snow can fill you from your toes to your crown with peace at its silence.

It remembers the way your heart beats a little bit quicker with something indescribable when the early-morning  sun races across the horizon to warm and caress your face in that one particular way.

How the blossoms of the dogwoods sparkle like stars in the moonlight, forming new constellations as they fall around you.

For this is the reason that Nature wields and weaves such a vast palette: not only for the nurturing of life but for the nurturing of the human soul.

A Dragon Sky


Olaf would say that the sky is awake, and so it is. As I stepped outside to toss the trash into the hopper, I found myself struck and just staring upward. The moon is almost full–round and bright and beautiful–the air is crisp and lovely, and the clouds are racing over the sky, backlit in moonlight blue. The only description that came to mind was “dragon sky”. Like dragons, the epitome of air elemental, racing through the night air or their breath so hot billowing before or after them in a great exhale that mists the blue-black velvet above.

I just wanted to lie on the hood of the car and watch the sky, fall asleep to the cloudy symphony above. But then my family would worry and I would surely catch my death on the cold hood of a dew-covered car. So I shall settle for writing it down and calling it up in my mind’s eye for a smile as the night goes on.