Monday, April 27, 2009

Gather ye rosebuds as you may

Spring – capricious, petulant and unpredictable.

Sunlight spilling down from an azure sky, breathing warmth into pale winter faces, touching a cool tongue to blush colour into yearning and want into blood grown sluggish with practiced ennui.

Spring – changeable, whimsical and quirky.

Heat beating down and sweat trickling from skin flushed with uncertainty, pulling at clothing suddenly restrictive and smothering only to shiver, flesh rippling as the sky frowns and clouds swallow the light and lap its brilliant promise into capitulation and surrender.

I raise my face to the grumbling promise of storm and open wide to the gathering thunder of possibilities and welcome the cool slick weeping of Spring promise.

The lake mumbles an undulating promise of surcease in the distance and looking out over the expanse of water, I feel my heart lift as molten sun inches golden trickles of brilliance through the broiling grey of sky and horizon until my eyes are dazzled and the sky sparks and glows and shines with a brilliance that aches.

The breeze licks my face softly, its breath soft, a promise of soft spring in its gentle caress. Grumbling and chittering and crackling, water courses in rivulets of clear streams of delight, freed from its winter prison, seeking to rejoin the vast expanse of lake and sky, to rejoin the font of their existence and feel whole yet again.

I feel my body awakening, flesh and nerve vibrating with new life which courses hot through veins sluggish from the slow insidious pull of despair, thrilling now and widening and flowing faster like the water which slips quicksilver along the course of lives lived and the eroded causeways of experience.

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

While the metaphor of youth, virginity and beauty is most obviously not applicable in the case of this selkie, the message itself is profoundly apt.

The reality is that NONE of us know how many hours are our lot in the uncertain, confused journey we are all travelling, each of us in our unique little groove, walls made of our own insecurities, barriers looming from fears profound and created, rock-strewn landscapes of possibilities unexplored, promises unkept and potential barren and frozen in the petrified forest of our indecision.

Best intentions are merely possibilities that often fail to reach fruition.

Caution is another word for a failure to embrace change.

The Moraie hold in their hands the threads of our little lives, and Atropos with her sharp knife makes the cut, often when we least anticipate.


And every day have this great wonderful
vibrant watch of a life
not lived in colour and so lifelike or not
and between flips,
it too passes with a gentle, deliberate lift of a finger,
altering the maybe world, or not, but

as always Death, in his boredom,
still holding my flesh and blood
maybe a dream, or not, hand,
checks his watch.
(f-cynr – This For Sure Death)

And while I am not quite there, I feel vibrating on the edge of consciousness the great conflagration of life in its colour and pageantry. In the smooth, pale flesh of my body, I feel the soft breath of lust breathe moistness into the barren landscape of a quiescent want, coaxing the small flickering flame into a fire which ignites a passion I thought forever doused.

Paths are seldom clearly delineated; our human eyes are weak, smudged with pretence and delusions created from the cringing fear of hearts and souls made small from anticipated trepidation.

Gather ye rosebuds as you may ....

For tomorrow we may die.


cutesy pah said...

I find it curious how so many people associate Spring with new birth, while so many others in the blog world realize that with new birth, death must also be present. For we cannot have the new without letting go of the old.

bittersweet, but true.

thanks for speaking what my soul cannot.

Buffalo said...

Tomorrow we may die, but this moment we have.

Caution is not always a failure to embrace change. Sometimes it is simply wisdom.

Mark said...

Beautiful thoughts! May we be like the buds that bloom and spread our petals without fear.

Gillette said...

:) Thanks.

Anonymous said...

I agree with Buffalo. Did you have to leave that "tomorrow we may die" crap in there? (I was having a good day until I read that line. :) )

Love your stuff!

selkie said...

I think the point I'm beginning to grasp (I'm not the quickest study in the world!) is right now is really all we've got - I feel strongly we don't know what came before, what comes after - carpe diem .. we must seize the day and live our lives to the fullest.