  |
|||
|
|
Pale green buds and flowers burst forth overnight on the pecan tree outside my window. Twigs extending out at odd angles from massive limbs appear decorated by an unseen hand.
To touch her massive trunk is to feel yesterday and today and forever. Her branches, rising up to the heavens, resemble a hand with fingers outstretched and grasping for what she can't quite reach. She continues. Season after season. She continues. She sleeps late in the springtime, waiting out the last cool breeze before she buds and flowers. The winds blow. She accepts help from neighbors. Her tiny yellowish buds grow into finely toothed leaflets that shade the earth during long hot summers. In August she yearns for a drink. The harvest will be bountiful if the universe hears her plea. Incubated in the care of nature, clustered in two to ten individuals, her fruit awaits maturity. The heat abates. Earth breathes a deep, cleansing breath. Fleshy shuck that held her babies splits into four regular seams, releasing her fruit to the ground. It is harvest time. The universe celebrates. Nights grow longer. Winter approaches. Her leaves turn yellow and drop to the ground. They feed her roots. She will rest for awhile. Her fingers, stripped of decoration, stretch even higher in silent meditation.
Go To Page: 1
For a complete listing of article comments, questions, and other discussions related to Vyvyan Lynn's Georgia topic, please visit the Discussions page. |
||
|
|
|||
