The Sound of Lush

Atop

The lush has taken over. Once spindled branches and silent stalks have emerged to their fullness. I feel the wild again, that only sun can bring. A gregarious green grimaces outside my window, obscuring my once unconditional view, speaking of life. As wind rustles these leaves, and flowers fawn for bees, I feel fresh. A space inside, free from my urge to hide, bounds forth into the promise of summer.

As the turn of the season approaches, I observe myself yet unturned, witnessing my worry of time’s march. Have I come into the ripeness I now see all around? I am reminded of my love of the lush — a promise I make to the trees and tide, to bloom and grow, ebb and flow.

Children chirp alongside their feathered friends outside my window in a mellifluous merging. The heat has not yet assumed its humbling posture, and instead invites movement and play, sound and song, free from the encumbrance of jackets and jeans. If I quiet myself, I can hear the whispers of the wild from these sidewalk games.

Where is my wild, and does it guard the ripeness I seek? I find wild hides in no place and time, and instead resonates with great nature’s gait. I hear my wild inside, behind closed eyes, a rising tide.

My ripeness sits not atop some hill; I have instead found it in the still, silent will. This ripeness I seek exists at no peak, but instead peeks through transitions and transformations, bringing me into another wondrous new cycle.