With the flowering dogwood down the street, the mind segues into a bit of whimsy on this lightly-misted morning.
Those days were bright and vibrant, as if nature had turned up the volume.
Then, a couple of days ago, the skies became grey. Rain, sometimes hard, fell. The mornings, as this morning, were coated in a light fog. The visual volume was turned down in one sense, and yet if anyone wants to get the full force and extent of nature's colors, a grey day is the kind of day to wish for. Delicacies leap softly into the eye. Things become as subtle and yet pronounced as a single strand of hair across some maternal brow.
Vibrant and delicate. Aren't people like that?
It's no good turning out some brass band for what is vibrant -- the wars, the deep love, the job well done ... no good because what is vibrant is just vibrant. Eeeeehaw!
Nor is it conclusive to wax rhapsodic about the tendril delicacies that can fill the scene ... the sip of coffee that is perfect, the single, strangely-enormous note within some symphony, the kiss that seems to last forever.
Definitions crumble. That's why things are new.
Newness has a way, like vibrance and delicacy, of outflanking any expression. It really is, after all, just new.
Turn the volume up, turn the volume down -- it's just your radio, right? No reason not to enjoy the program.