On Sodom Pond

Postcards from rural Vermont

Turning

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All right then. I see it. Folding myself onto my meditation cushion, reaching for the timer to set my hard and humble ten minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, at the edge of the woods, where I’d overturned a wheelbarrow of leaves two days before. Out there, in the rust refuse, past yellowed lawn and spindly apple branches clawing at another gray sky–:

April 23 002

Green.

I mean, green. You know the one. The green that begins it all. The green you can never imagine coming back. Hard on the eyes. Soft on the heart.  An unripe, uppity green. Tawdry, almost. A green that knows nothing but sets forth anyway, picking up everything around it in its light.  You can’t un-see it once it’s found its way in. It is juvenile and unready but boasts at the door.

Pull it together. Strap yourself in. The race is on.

 

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