“I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever dancing ever changing.”
Dorothy Wordsworth, The Grasmere Journal – Thursday 15 April 1802.
Long before us, long during the journey of us & long after us, there will always be clouds the size of our collected imagination spooning the sky, waiting to disrobe their white shrouds. The sky waiting, to begin again the music of life, of love, of laughter, a triptych melody, some Debussy dream, puffy beard fingers trying to catch the yellow balloon rising like a breath, each morning warmer than the previous evening each day more alive than dead. The balloon will still be burning in the darkness of space, sailing far from the frowning boy who let it go long ago, having never dreamt of Icarus, only of endless fields of green stored in concrete vaults, or number machines able to calculate life yet never live for themselves, nor split the atom without knowing why. Long after us, he pollution will be gone as will be the words that made the ache, that made the loss, that made the death. Long after us, the makers of the wind will billow again, electric chords that make the wind, the trickster it is, invisible fingers begin playing the air like flitters on piano keys, and the beat drum of rain will spill the pollution into the oceans wave after wave crashing like symbols churning what is bad, back into good, and somewhere bright, somewhere warm love will be reborn, the history of history long laid to rest & spread like ashes into sterile soil to sweeten the soil structure returning earth back to the earth. Long before us & long after us, there will always be golden crowns tumbling up from the tilth able to dance with the wind, with the air grooving to the quiet music of life.