Thistledown
I wrote this the other day as I contemplated the way plant down catches the air. I loved the way the cloud formations mirrored the wisp.
This time of year you start to notice these twists of flower fluff.
Sometimes they cling on like rugged beards on spindly stem shepherds.
Sometimes they’re so thick I wonder if they’re sheep wool.
Sometimes they foam from thistle heads, summer’s last champagne picnic.
And
Sometimes they appear to fall from the sky as snow spiders to dance the daintiest of ballets upon your hand, as in the poem I wrote.
Whatever their form, they captivate with their gentle energy of hope. The white of their death also marks the calm dormancy of a new life. The seeds will sail, rest and wait, before emerging once more into a brighter world.
And if you feel at the end of something - the road, your tether - the magic within this simple cycle of renewal can speak to you too, if you let it.
Let it.
Thistledown
In the aran arms of evening
As my breathing ploughed the haze
I nursed a star of thistledown
To plucked song of dying rays
He wrestled with the movement
I battled with my still
We nestled in the moment
Anticipating coming chill
I grieved his final journey
As he was carried to new land
But briefly I would know his touch
Lightest dove upon my hand
PS: If you enjoyed this post, you may also like this one.
A litany of 'offers', 'discounts', and 'deals' usually awaits me in my email inbox. None of which I want to engage with, the delete button is wearing thin; finger erosion! Latterly, I have a different notification, telling me that Julie has published another piece. What a delight it's proving to be.
"the magic within this simple cycle of renewal can speak to you too"
Serendipity. Not a word I use a lot. But as life pulls and pushes, as it often does, I tend to look inward a little more than normal. Now is one of those times. I've been looking for answers within myself, to no avail. But these 13 words are everything I needed to hear and digest. Serendipitous.
Thank you, Julie. I don't want to get all mushy but you really have a very beautifully feminine way of expressing yourself. Something I don't see enough of in this (post) modern world. You are the dew to the parched flower.
I’m enjoying reading through your poetry and prose all over again. This (both the poem and the preamble) really speaks to the way you take note of your surroundings, notice the feelings provoked in you, then encapsulate this into a form that lives beyond the immediacy of the moment. The photo with the sun ray is spectacular.