Evolving

At the end of the day, most things are alright. The evening sky is ever beautiful, solemn, and forthright. The stars ever speak of times to come, times that were, when the little imaginings of our present world are infinitely far from sight. Hope springs in every grass blade, and love in every opening blossom, and poetry revels itself in the dusty corners I have forgotten, the ancient memory of the sprightly, solemn personality I can’t escape.

We come to the haying, the first inkling to put aside for darker times the bounty and light unfolding before us. We watch tentatively the crops that are meant for winter storage. The crops we know will not survive the frost we measure and test now, ever with a mind to meet the finish line. Like waking up in late adolescence, realizing that life takes effort, and gathering up the scraps of cultivated individuality, so we intake a little breath, and look to hoes, rakes, and mason jars.

As if still in last night’s dream, I awake to the building warmth a little ineffective to my surroundings. I could lie down in the meadow, the flowers and grass growing over my peaceful form, if it wasn’t time to mow such places clean, to rake, pile and order the growth. Ever Nature asks “what do you wish to become?”. A little seed ripening, an evaporating dew drop, a steady trustworthy little bee. All such things move ever forward, dance always in happiness, change continually themselves and their surroundings. At the end of the day, most things are different. They have evolved, they have endured.