4-97

This world is immense. It is endless in its secrets. It stretches infinitely to its horizons. This world will never show me all of its prizes or its haunts.

Yet in the middle of all this monstrosity are little pockets of infinity. Microcosms, if you will: small areas where the soul finds itself growing.

Not growing slowly or even in the respect that it is maturing, but growing; growing larger than the body; expanding to meet the parallels of the pocket. The eye can only see a mile, maybe. Maybe much less. Sometimes even much more. But the eye can never see forever. It is, instead, confined to the pocket. Yet this mile is nearly too much for the mind to comprehend.

The infinity of the world is crushed into the small area, and the eye that finds the pocket gives the mind much to consider. Much to ponder. Much to comprehend, and, in failing, much to accept.

The hill on which my eye now rests is so much more than just a hill. Freshly mown grass leaves the wonderful scent in the air which reminds me that spring, the wonderful season when warmth creeps up on the south and then pounces it with heat, is finally here again. It also reminds me, after a little thought, that it is nearly nine years to the day of my mother's death.

But the glitter, the dancing pockets of light that reflect the still cool sun off the calm lake remind the mind of beauty...of peace.

There is a goose flying, calling, alone down the river. It's odd to see a goose flying alone.

And the crickets. In two short months they will be deafening as the heat of summer beats upon the south. Today, however, a steady sound of a couple here and there just sends the soul back twenty years.

That's all. There was never anything more.

The river. The large, tranquil river seems to run straight into a green blanketed ridge.

Green.

Last month it was brown and desolate.

The cows in a far-off pasture are not huddled together against the cold. They are now scattered, eating from a bright green hill-side.

The shadows begin to stretch as the sun descends...it is getting cooler now as the wind whips through...it's still April. And the fishermen are beginning to roar their boats home.

But two hawks now appear above the opposite cliffs, and the soul knows they see another pocket just over the next ridge.

This pocket cannot endure forever, and it's futile to hope for it. Maybe the page can hold it a little while longer, but, eventually, even that image will fade. Its endurance, however, is not the key.

Its existence is.

The new pockets must be found, because the world is infinite, and the eye must somehow convey that infinity of time to the desperate, immortal mind which seeks to understand it.

(c) 1997 Me

[Safety] [The Room] [The Trail] [Cool Summer] [Achievement] [Valkyries' Last Ride]
[Infinity] [The Eagle] [Spring Sunday] [Astray] [The Bumblebee] [Plastic Toy Soldiers]

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