Indian Summer

This is Nature's irrepressible
sense of humour, briefly arresting
cold November winds, allowing
a blessed reprieve, recalling
summer's taken-for-granted
gentle breezes, loftily-piled
feather-white clouds against a
pale blue canvass of sky, the
brilliant eye of the sun poking
its scintillating fingers upon the
landscape, warmly, tenderly.

And we, how we so very much
appreciate her humour, bathe
ourselves gratefully in its essence,
happy for the restoration of weather
attuned to mood - or is it the reverse?
Regardless, we bask in the kindness
of this Indian Summer, the calm
before the stormy onslaught of
inevitably-icy winter gales.

Not only we, but the bluejay with its
bell-clear call, the beaver hauling
itself out of its lodge, the squirrels
running amok, searching acorns and
pinecones, white moths circling the
gentle air, the whistling, predatory
hawks, and questioning owls, the
red-capped woodpeckers, all of our
landscape companions indulging in
Nature's seasonal practical joke.

Witness To History

Eventful, biased accounts humankind
calls history is a convention of classical
informed memory becoming collective;
recalling and inventing what scholars,
national archivists and state politicians
assemble, record, parse, deny and
synthesize in a frail retrospective
of human nature meeting each
another and dealing with events that
ensue, unavoidably, disastrously.

History concerns itself largely
with the flagrant excesses of the
nature of those being surveyed at a
distance of time and altered social
convention. The absolutes of human
knowledge of the constituents of
inhumanity, vanity, superiority,
and the penchant to belittle and
destroy each other, played, replayed
to an ever-receptive audience.

The penchant and tendency of
people to wreak upon one another
pain and misery deliberately achieved
to satisfy a deeply entrenched loathing
for the other can only reflect a nature
gone amock, become deranged, besotted
with self-destruction. Toward which
purpose, episodic upheavals of warfare
lead to an end, never fully yet committed.

The final abyss leading us to an
inevitable denouement is yet to be
realized. Accepted norms of mutually
targeted brutality leaves in the wake of
their atrocities the maimed and the
shocked; fearful, dreading, yet meeting
new horizons. Ultimately our urge to
destroy will bring to reality the final
frontier of the nuclear winter and
obliteration to make war obsolete.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

Arctic Rainbow Photograph by Paul Nicklen

That great arc of primary

colours, that so delights the child
that remains wistfully within us all;
a lift of prevailing atmosphere
drenched in rain following a
storm raises hope of miraculous
transformation offered to those
with residual hope: a pot of gold.

The golden opportunities life
is reputed to offer to the reckless
and the feckless never quite seems
to materialize. Rain there is
aplenty in endless rivers of
sorrow and despair; where to
salvage hope at low ebb?

The tide of our discontent ever
rising when life stands in severe
judgement of unwary choices
achieved through the freest of wills.
When regret and repentance and
sadness overtakes the present,
dominates the future, what use
a fabled rainbow of promise?

As It Should Be

She is but a passing acquaintance
that is true, but even so such as
she have meaning in our lives.
Her greeting smile just as recalled
as last we met. By nature a happy
soul, finding meaning and goodness
everywhere and in everyone who
touches her life with kindness. She
still appears young and fresh,
despite a lifetime of experience
she is prepared to share without
the asking. The difference a year
has wrought is beyond superficial
though it is facade. Her visage
reveals those concerns and fears
that have closed upon her, as deep
chasms have been mapped upon the
canvas of her face, belying her bright
ease of speech affectingly adopted
to convince herself and others that
all is as it should be, endurable.

Yet To Come

It is a truly glum day after
the too-brief sojourn into
Indian Summer, the last
brave hurrah of the year's
live-and-let-live season. Gone
the pellucid lid of Earth,
hidden the sun's disarming
rays - behind the immovably
stubborn metal-hued clouds.

The rising warmth lies sunk
into a sizzling funk of bitter
acknowledgement. Of fiercely
oncoming blizzards of snow
and ice fog, freezing rain and
Arctic wind hovering upon the
inevitable cusp of arrival.

The leafy canopy of the forest
has dissolved into sere,
bare boughs. The creek has
surrendered to freeze-up,
and this cold penetrating rain
chills creatures not yet
accustomed to the memory
of what is yet to come.

How Have You Been?

The good news is that the
operation was a success; we're
delighted, said the surgeon,
concluding another examination.
The scar tissue that now distorts
your vision due to surgery,
well - it's scar tissue.

This follow-up, post-surgery
assessment has revealed,
however, another pinpoint-sized
hole in your vitreous. We could
go with another surgery, but I
would recommend we wait.
That hole in your retina may
close of its own volition.

No Madam, I would not actually
recommend bypassing another
surgical intervention should
that hole begin to expand.
Ignoring it will most certainly
guarantee loss of vision in
the affected eye, entirely.

I am booking another 3-month
appointment for you here at the
Eye Institute. We will continue
to monitor the health of your eyes.
Your right eye presents well enough
for someone of your age. In the
meanwhile, have a good day.

Perfect!

I do not know her, but she has
made it her business to know
what I am about. Slender, dark,
vivaciously appealing, her Latin
origins obvious. She is young and
doubtless tempestuous. This much
I glean from observing her.

She is, truth to tell, difficult to
overlook. All the more so as she
has parked herself rather
conspicuously before my shopping
cart, perusing my selections, and,
with a wide smile, approving.

In particular, the long velvet
flounced skirt, modestly priced,
that I plan to wear only within the
confines of my home, for warmth
and attractive coverage this winter
approaching. It is a garment, alas,
far too flamboyant for my years.

"Perfect!" she enthuses, lauding
my taste. Perfect for her. Dark eyes
flashing mischief, verbosely
accented, she avows her happiness
because she is shopping, however
frugally, at the local Sally Ann.

When I'm sad, she says, I come
here, and I shop. And I feel better, I
feel happy. We are, after all, we
agree, despite heritage and birth
and the yawning distance of years,
she with glossy curling tresses, me,
grey, wrinkled - we are sisters.