Date: Mon, 8 Jul 1996 08:28:40 -0400 (EDT) To: Carolyn L Burke
From: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: html6
java in hand for a trip...the VCR says 737
here I go
I have become a morning writer, like her. Maybe I can evolve then.
Welcome to my thinking room,
my freest mind.
It's not always in the same place,
hard to find.
My thinking room is where I write
and unleash every thought-
Where I try to understand, pen in hand,
what I'm all about.
It's where I really always am and where I want to be.
The greenery is still.
The dew, wet.
the sun, warm.
the day, met.
Amongst the herbs and geraniums I sit.
The air, a perfect wet, still, lush. Dense to smell, and the sky a Paris haze, far from threatening, far from.
They are at their most "alive" stage, outgrowing themselves, overgrowing each other as the most perfect conditions encourage lushness, prosperity, and fullness - as green as green gets, or their respective shades.
The thyme and tarragon, weeks ago but babies, are now grown to more than fill their pots. Like teenagers, gangly and long, their variegated arms are stretched. The thyme threatens the world with numerous tiny purple buds. The tarragon, now taller from the second step, reaches out in all direction. The tiny but now strong geranium that I saved from pure peril now has no choice but to look strong, putting forth it's thickest soft leaves. From where I sit I cannot see its center of activity but find no surprise should it house a tiny blossom.
The grandma and grandpa geraniums on the lower steps are dark and full with age, almost sage. One tall sprout each headed directly at the rising sun - almost virginal - slowly raises one face of the total blossom at a time, to be pointed at the heavens and presented for bloom. Several have mostly ended their journey of turning and unravelling the coral pink petals, now wet with the evening's last dew.
re-visiting the green to come...
Like I said, a morning person, like her.
with deadlines, real and created.
"Everyone out of the plane!....."