After the storm

In the calm succeeding the storm, effort subsides and the meadow has already shown itself to be patient. 

The rough clumps of bordering nettles, all the noiseless bijou acuminate flowers, all the branches reaching out barely dispelling the weight.

In time, the wind is depleted and every blade of grass ascends to the incipient pulses of sun.

And the air is follicles flickering, their energy barely contained.

They break out in groves and the wind is sucked back for good to some scarcely perceived end point.

All this happening in time.

Droplets of water on the furrowed leaves, on the doughty arms of the trees on the outermost layers just above the final blushed green of the meadows.

The field is from distance a carpet or when you’re amongst it just berserk patchwork growth.

In time there's no more moisture, and the mind cannot go back and mould it as real. All is fleeting, there for the briefest moment you may not even lament.

There was a time when you and you were still living but for those who came later you had to make way.

All this perpetually recurring.

There is no difference in time because all is eternal.

When the sun cannot decide whether to come out and the clouds stay hung across like a curtain.

Everything changes minutely but there’s no change because the change is built into the stasis. 

You breathe in life.