(till it comes again.)

until next year...

(the festival.)

our day was filled with blue sky, thoughts of september and the feelings of pure summer. fingertips dusted in sugar was august's last kiss. faded yellow and red surrounded us in crowds of people and of the festial in and of itself, a keepsake in our minds for approaching days of crackled leaves and cold winds.

clouds framed it all, and the loud music and bustle was only a side note, simply unimportant when there's cotton candy and an occasional breeze.

then the day comes to a close and our fingertips remember it all.

(melancholy.)

melancholy is for past summers, summers that drifted past open windows and disappeared beneath bare feet. melancholy is for the grey sky. it is for the looking back and smiling, remembering your feet's course and the touch of your finger's upon old objects. 

like an un-ripe peach instead of honey, which preserves itself for as long as forever lasts. this is where year '11 remains.

summers made of honey rest at the tip of my tongue, yet memory-sculpted days are here instead. i'll wait for the day when sun melts cameras, capsules to ancient wonderings. till then i'll keep august in my warm-honey-heart.

(with the bees.)

i think i've become a friend of bees. when they approach me i'm glad, i'm glad to share their silence, their aloneness, their contented-busyness.

how can they be so fleeting and hasty and yet seem peaceful? the thought- the obligation- of continuous work is kept locked in their small minds yet they are always moving. yet if my job were as constant as my breathing i suppose i would live for it, cherishing each flower, each bit of pollen, as much as i cherish every step i take. i think it comes with time.

like a rusting locket passed down through generations is the loving work of the bees.

(stillness.)

canola, yellow and wondrously-winged
flies through our prairies.
clouds watch over yellow buds.
crooked fences are paint-chippedand aged dividers of our fields,

land and land

 made close like the rushed beehive is to the old tree.

withered branches rest across one another
with their un-hasty gratitude.

 

prairies soar in their stillness.

(beach people.)

seagulls and clear-blue-sky are so lovely! the sand was hot, but there was wind. the waves were big. our feet nestled into grains of sand that casually tumbled off by the thousands, casting themselves into whatever is below.

i found a tiny treasure, and there were peaches.

(riverbed.)

thoughts of fingers safely nestled in green moss and clear streams are still fresh in my head. i love touching the wet rocks and i love discovering the hidden crevices as we walk. the hundreds of shades of grey are mesmerizing. settle riverbed sounds are just dreamy.

the openness between wall and wall is comforting, like out-stretched arms allowing you to wander forward between them. a not-so-obvious greeting. 

hearts may belong in river-beds but hands belong to the freshly roasted corn.