The repartee of moon and stars disguised itself as night birdsong, from the mirth of day's shadow they conjured wings. From the pleasant bonhomie of the brooks they wove the melody. Then chitter, chatter it went on, threading through all the land. It was this way at nightfall, ne’er ceasing until just ere dawn. And, in this gay subterfuge they were full-pleased. From whence this magic came, none could say, yet every heart it did bestir, every dream it did render full-bright.
In that broken down house, long after the hurricane had passed, the rain-drenched typewriter weeped out its ink. Cold wind blasts went unfelt. Lamenting joist creaks went unanswered. No fresh pages came. No warm hands arrived. No new words sang out. Built tough as it was, tankish in its weight, it wondered if it might outlast the collapsing dwelling, if at least it might see unfiltered daylight one last time.
Beneath a blushing sky, threading cherry blossom puddles, Anna’s bicycle surrendered to gravity in the advancing dusk. Feet free of the pedals, giggling with childish mirth, homeward she rode. She negotiated turns with balletic poise, her gravitational centre just right. Soon a new night would usher in the stars, the constellation choir of her eclectic dreams. With a lungful of eventide air, cool and fresh, she sang a new song into the breeze and whooped for giddy joy.
The rose is a memory, its aroma a time machine. Its transience condenses a poignancy, an urge to savour the moment as the sweetest joy. Built of light and sugar as it is, how could it not be sweet? How could it not whisper-sing of the finest days. It is indeed the bonniest flag of love, it’s standard bearer in the summer breeze. To linger near is to realise a state of once elusive calm. Live in this garden o’rose, rooted deep and strong. Drink the rain and sun the same. Bask in beaming birdsong. Rose, live your days, live well each one.
Eyes open! Eyes wide! The clock hands leap as gayest spring lambs. The clock hands sun-sing amid this blessed morrow’s tide. Sound and sight marry as one, bolder in each declaration that true day hath begun. So rise up! Come hither! Grab bonnet and cap! Grab parchment and pen! Bring sweet maple sap! The cold night is banished. The long winter battle is won. A dawn of mirth and merriment announces that happiness hath come.
Starling feathers in the sky, as if dipped in earthen ink, wrote their tale in aviated calligraphy. They sang in heaven’s key, high above the milling crowds: so free, so merry, so blithe. That day they were my heart-scribes, writing the very essence of my soul, the worth of each mortal beat within my chest. How I treasure the simple memories of that simple day. How I treasure the emotions that bade erstwhile doubts adieu. How I treasure the old me who was lost, yet is now found. In the gentle winds of spring, in the expanse of one breath, my heart was reborn a starling; with my soles upon a quilt of green, as they graced the blue, my wings opened wide.