Saturday, June 12, 2010

Honeysuckle days

At times, certainly not often enough, on a
balmy evening when the early summer breeze
weaves itself ever so softly among the honeysuckle
vines and back to me, and the world becomes hushed
and golden with the sun sitting suspended just
above the horizon, I catch a glimpse of the magic
of my childhood. A warm and sweet time, lush with
the burgeoning innocence of youth, it was a time
when everything had its brilliant color and those
colors were honest and full of depth, even
within the shadows of the increasing dusk.

The world held no fear for me then, no doubts, no
discouragement, and no inkling of the sadness
I would cause and encounter in later life, and thus
I looked to the future as if it were guaranteed to be as
gorgeous and fragrant as that honeysuckle. However,
the world, from the many thousands of days
since I first marveled in it as an child, has grown
colorless, stringent, fearful - or is it the melancholy
I seem to have been born with that's destroyed that
childhood joy and sense of real beauty - a question
I ponder frequently and one for which I have no
answer. Unadulterated joy no longer comes
and I doubt I would recognize it should it ever
intrude again on this aging and corrupt being.



Kelly Marszycki said...

your contrast of honeysuckle -- such a heady aromoa! -- and the old, stringent world of today -- achingly beautiful.

Warren said...

Thank you, Kelly - The older I get the more the memories grow sweeter. I guess that's how it's supposed to work?