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The Haze of That Certain Day

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To glimpse the meadow before the storm, the gardener rose in the haze of that certain day. In the path and swirled around the feet, the dusty remnants of leaves were upon them as a canvas. Light broke through edges of mist and doused the banks of a crystalline brook. Motion laid down as if stasis were inert against itself. It grasped pebbles and silt in the all-encompassing embrace of dissolution, much like the inevitable results of photosynthesis. Time sidled against the weight of the earth in suspended animation, but fell like the tide with shadows cast over a stone dial.


This was the hour before a gathering of clouds on the horizon. The broom flew across that eternally immaculate surface of transplantation in the midst of internment. Scattered breaths with stems of the fallen distressed were gathered together in the bundles of cupped hands, pressed together as if held aloft. Prayers of tiger claws spiraling up bamboo poles while jade swans cradled diamond palaces between wings of fire. This was the way of the wind and dew which caressed the green grass upon every golden dawn. It was brought forth from above, in the weight of the sun which dappled the rain. Every drop refracted and reflected mandalas as memories of moonlight.


That alignment was forged in the origin, before the ancients drew breath. It was given to the multitude and bestowed for revolutions. As the globe would spin to shed the skin of growth, the gardener would greet such bounty with open arms. In the era of elevation under designation, it brought such fallen facets forth like the jewel of a namesake. The heritage of dynamics yearned for expression. Lightning flashed as the twilight of brightness approached. It was as if a call being answered would cross any boundary. All possible worlds would heave with the thunderous exaltation of shuffled correspondence. The end was reflected in the beginning, and served its accorded purpose as the shore where waves would crash.


So it was, with the atmosphere pierced by winking stars. The tune of a breeze through the underbrush was heard in the forest, and applauded by the stones. Some were set in circles to measure the number of hands it took to hew them in place. Others were lost among the rubble, awaiting the time of discovery, and the time of adventures on the high seas. Colors dancing in the sky held promise for the people. The gardener recalled their wishes as such epic strategy unfolded in the humming atoms scattered beyond. It was a gaze which held the place for things to be placed, a dance as the summation of steps accorded. A view of nature smiling. Water flowed uphill, and the leaves were again waving from the branches.

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