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Jun. 27, 2007 Far into the autumn there were large hills in northern lake towns. In one of the towns on one of the hills you could stand on the top and see hundreds of tombstones smartly being there calm and calm the morning dew is there. In the mind’s eye a red barn flashes. In the mind’s eye fifteen-foot tall phantom women float. But there are not these things there. There is the hill, and of course there are flowers. People leave all the colors there, and someone said that there were some nuns somewhere that used to come and take the flowers. I thought of a group a short nuns running about in the nights putting the flowers in baskets and whisking them off to wherever, maybe arranging them on a mantle in a spacious room with a fireplace. All the graves. All the graves. Walking over the dead. Strolling over the dead. McIntyre. Richardson. Fellows. McCloud. Lightening does not strike the hillside in the mid-morning journey. Rays of golden and delicious light don’t gesture from galaxies to nod and bless the hillside. Only its vastness is there, and the dew, and the names. Only the carvings and the various flowers. Those hues. Yellow. Purple. White. Others. Far into the autumn, there, for instants, instants that are ripe and long, there is a cutting eating rolling thunderous fierce good reality that grabs the heart and closes in on it pure and heavy, and its now flowers splashing color right through the eyes and mind, flowers stronger than any humans, flowers with true strength, and that is why they chose to be flowers and not stones, flowers and not streets, flowers and not dust, dirt, or even dew. Far into the autumn there were large hills in northern lake towns. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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