The late afternoon sun is inching towards the spot on the horizon where it will pause for the solstice. I was out in the yard, and noticed how the angle illuminated the leaves of the twin red maples by the breakwall, and the twin red tulips beside the patio. The colors of spring always seem to me the richest, as if Nature is pouring all its energy into renewal. First come the early-blooming flowers, always a welcome sight in a winter-weary yard.
My tulips opened a little late this year – the chill lasted longer on the lake, so they’re still hanging on. They’re not two-tone; it’s the sun back-lighting their delicate translucent petals, and around them the grass and the new leaves show off their bright juicy green–or in the case of my red maples, a brilliant red. Spring progresses in stages. Across the street, the petals from my neighbor’s magnolia have fallen, and the next wave–the lilac buds–are waiting to pop.
As summer wears on, the maple leaves will lose their leaves youthful reds and turn a deeper, brownish purple–a color with the called Mars Violet in my paintbox. Trees with green leaves will grow dull, the grass will lose its spring sheen, and the tulips will be just a memory, but for now everything is shiny and new.
The Cloud Messenger (Meghadūta) is a lyric poem by the respected Indian poet, Kālidāsa. The poem centers around a yaksa in exile. Longing for his beloved, waiting for him on a Himalayan mountain, he asks a cloud to take a message to her. The sights he tells the cloud it will see on its way make up most of the poem.
The idea of recording observations appeals to me. I thought The Cloud Messenger was the perfect title for a blog about the journey that we all make as we move through our days.
I'm a baby boomer who grew up dancing in the streets of Detroit during the classic Motown years, lived beside the Rocky Mountains for many years, now retired and living (and writing full time) in S. Ontario. I have one blog for rock 'n' roll oldies, and one for nature, poetry and life along the Lake.