Watch the world from the windows for a while. What do you see?
(A/N: Okay, the first time I published this, the formatting was an absolute catastrophe. But I fixed it, so now it's actually legible. ^^)
"The Pink House" - A Stream of Consciousness Styled Exercise
It’s a serene house. Serene in a commanding, well-read kind of way. A thoughtful, wise and patient kind of way. A patient house among the profound dignity of the yard, content to be what it is. Content to be a ranch that sprawls in the clearing of the beech trees, whose strong upward boughs with their thick dressings of clean leaves not so much crowd the sky as frame it—do not so much crowd the house as frame it.
The beech trees stand in communion, their trunks gently gray and running with deep grooves through which rain water trickles, soaking the rich moss that climbs the sturdy bark and quenching the thirsty roots, the roots that arc up from the waves of the soft and prickly itching grass and glance at the blaring sunlight before diving majestically back into the sweet, cool refuge of the earth.
It’s a serene house; of bleached pink bricks, wide and weathered and pockmarked, and of longways planks of dingy white wood that bare the battle scars of weather and kindling piles stacked up against themselves, woodchips littering the crease where the planks meet the disheveled stones of the modest porch, where rich moss has ruptured the foundation and lathered the stones in a slick and natural green.
The modest porch out front is enclosed by a low tier of that same faded pink brick, with a break meant for a path that was never cleaved through the soft and prickly itching grass, which spread all through the yard, alive with purple crocuses and all around the peacefully stooping dogwood by the porch, whose white flowers drift lazily off in the infant days of summer. Around the peacefully stooping dogwood huddle bouquets of pallid and saccharine stargazers, intimate at the scions but spreading for liberty at the petals and really among the most random and splendid furnishings of the yard.
More random and more splendid still there stands the Japanese maple, its roots particularly foreign yet well at home in the limey Indiana soil. It stands off to the edge of the yard where the least alive of the itching grass burrows down beneath an old fence of splintering wood and crosshatched wire, its entire form longing gracefully in the direction of the rising sun where the ruddy hues of newborn day swell through the beeches, turning them black.
The dark complexion of the lissome maple is amiably smooth to the fingertips like apple skin, even as they trace the great whorls in its bark and the mild riffs where the insects have gnawed. A beautiful and tranquil tree, its narrow base splits immediately into two freewheeling trunks, which crane like dancing arms to the east and split, and do so again and again until the very branches taper into thin papery and acutely pointed leaves colored in the deep and passionate red of wine.
Far across the yard from the maple is where the blushing peonies grow, their myriad petals enticingly soft and delicately pink. Amidst them hide the bleeding hearts, fresh cerise and ivory, drooping from some ponderous and loveless weight cast upon their auburn necks. Nearby these delicacies of the earth there towers a mighty immortal pine, with refined green needles that litter the ground beneath it, bleached dry and tan by the cycle of death. Inside the conical giant winds a spiraling catacomb of sap-thick boughs whose hide is gruesome and course and unfriendly.
The gently gray trunks of the beech trees, the itching grass and the crocuses, the stargazer lilies, the Japanese maple, the peonies and the hearts, and the mighty immortal pine can all be seen quite easily from behind the grand double-paned window that sits behind the modest front porch, where the glass is cool against my nose as I gaze out with an imaginary wonderment.
On this the umpteenth miserable day where freezing rain splatters a city and her suburbs already completely blanketed with poorly melting snow and newly spreading ice, I look out upon the stillness of death.
The beeches are bare and black before me, black now from the cold and the wet and not from the rising majesty of the sun; the greens of the itching grass have long since stiffened into xanthous stalks buried beneath the bedding of Jack Frost, as have my beloved crocuses, my mother’s lilies, her peonies and the bleeding hearts which no longer bleed for the blood is frozen stiff and sunken into the hidden recesses of the lifeless earth; beauty has been stripped from the lissome tendrils of the maple, and it stands, not leaning in yearning for the sunrise, but simply petrified, as the motion in the craning of its branches has died with the passionate wine-red leaves…but there stands the brutish pine—evergreen, invincible, regal having dawned his swathe of snow, for while he towers the whole year ‘round he is a child of the death of Persephone, and the death of winter suits him so.
The serenity of the ranch that sprawls in the clearing of the beech trees has been surrendered to the stern solitude of the winter, when all wells of voluptuous beauty run dry and fruitless in the bitterness of the cold. But in their absence there coolly emerges a new and narrow beauty, for only few among mankind can see that it is beauty.
In the ashen snowfall and the silence of the ice crystals, in the unchallenged stillness of the world as it calcifies, the soft-spoken sister of the well-read serenity wells up from the bosom of the earth, and reigns in a gentle, white peace, until that fateful day, after the depression of the winter doldrums has finally passed, when the Queen of the Dead shall rise unscathed from her grave, and my favorite little wild violet, the first of the new year, shall bloom.