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Of Sweet Vanilla
Of Sweet Vanilla
Of Sweet Vanilla
I take a stand along the tall needles that cut lush farmland like fine pins that line the seam of earth’s cushion.
Spinning into infinity. Time speeds like a whistle through the trees. A last call of the wild to firmly root any last plant of existence. Humans must understand forgiveness to survive. They must embrace every last shred of humanity and find appreciation for the moment of realization and frolic in the wash of acceptance. To touch is to reciprocate a common passion for life and acknowledge the trail of experience that has prepared this instance of exchange.
Heavy vanilla mist settles into the valley ‒ riding the hillside of the northern Skagit and the Chuckanut. This place has found me once again. I thought I had wound out of this place ‒ this land of too many riddles and too little time. It is worn with the years ‒ with the debate ‒ with the drizzle of reason that leads us to stalemate. Pondering.
I love vanilla lattes.
Mountains slid to the sea. It was remarkable. The locks of red bounced as she strode down the street. Coyotes follow the trail of screams as they skirt along the Village of the Dogs. The fence posts are nearly invisible, obscured through a dirty lens.
No stars out tonight.
She spins into the fantasy-laced imagination of what could be - on the verge of manifestation ‒ but just short of actualization. It is really something to have shared ‒ regardless ‒ I was there. But she is gone forever. It is a fleeting moment of coffee and smokes and elevators. One innocent kiss and a hug between kindred spirits, perhaps.
But I was smitten, I admit.
Now I wrestle with the depths of circumstance - driven to circle back around to face the daunting, though plausible. This intervention is timely, anyway ‒ if not uncanny. It is like the vanishing point begins to expand when we place our steps in the right direction.
Grassy Hill Radio strums an acoustic background with blues and earthly browns and greens that wrap the room in tranquil perspective. I am lost to it all ‒ this life of drunken marriage. Of obligation and rescinding matters of happenstance. Of a boat left to drift through too many storms where tattered sails lounge limp with the mast. But the weed at its side flashes its luminescence in the night and there is hope.
The poetry of my heart rumbles in the twisted juniper of my past stretching its roots from the parched desert floor like chapped arms reaching desperately for water.
There in the shadows of this night; I see you sitting there softly glowing in the melody of couch acoustics. Your harmonica smile warms my heart and takes hold of my curiosity, yanking me into the thoughts of my dreams; of my desires where only the tall alpine meadow still blooms in it’s mountain crags. Though beautiful, I can only linger for so long.
I was left there one fateful day.
The sky bore deeply into my soul ‒ seeping into every thought. Your eyes held me fast, hypnotized and fixated on your beauty and grace. Your presence brought the gentle breeze with warmth and I could feel the contour of your lips make contact with the sweet sun. There in the fabric of time, we held the clock steady from any advance and took pause.
Now it is days on the end of reason. A stick could have been made for walking ‒ but years of idealities have whittled it to a pick. Without a song, the buildings remain still.
Where hope resides, there too life will bend as a tree stoops for water.