When youth and blood were warmer...
When we moved into this house a few years ago there was an awe inspiring tree, centrally located in the back yard bearing hundreds of plump, juicy limes. The peel on every piece of fruit was a dense and deep shade of green and if you gashed the surface with your fingernail you'd smell intense citrus for the rest of the afternoon. The sun used to shine through the thick canopy and shower rays upon the lime tree's branches and as a thank you, the tree became lush and thick and provided a bounty of fruit worthy of a fairy tale.
But like all fairy tales there is darkness lurking just under the surface. If you're not careful, this tree also produces long, sharp thorns. Picking ripe fruit is almost always accompanied by wiping blood from your hands.
And like all fairy tales, the last two words that carry as much weight as any harvested bushel of fruit are printed purposefully, plainly and painfully at the conclusion of the story to serve as a reminder of our eventual, inevitable outcome. Limitation is nature's sweetener, though.
But being spent, the worse, and worst, time still succeed the former.
Keeping in mind that this blog has a definitive, fixed expiration date, today's Jazz Hands are a brief, routine defying breath of fresh air, albeit a tad cliché.
Day fifty-six complete.
But being spent, the worse, and worst, time still succeed the former.
Keeping in mind that this blog has a definitive, fixed expiration date, today's Jazz Hands are a brief, routine defying breath of fresh air, albeit a tad cliché.
Day fifty-six complete.
No comments:
Post a Comment