Springtime 2024: all of nature says hello.

"They say that springs of sweet fresh water well up amid the brine of salt seas; that the fairest Alpine flowers bloom in the wildest and most rugged mountain passes; that the noblest psalms were the outcome of the profoundest agony of soul.
Be it so. And thus amid manifold trials, souls which love God will find reasons for bounding, leaping joy. Though deep call to deep, yet the Lord's song will be heard in silver cadence through the night."
 

-LB Cowman
 

The sylvan hue of melting ice--this, as the dogwoods slowly open sleep-crusted eyes, and all of nature begins to pick up its instruments, carry the rhythm, and each in earnest portray its own element in the over-arching melody of what we have termed to be a "season".  This, the Vernal Equinox and the Mongoose Full Moon, the Penumbral Eclipse--a convergence, and in the world of commerce and amalgamation, a divergence, mayhap--nature reminding, tapping us on the shoulder with spring showers, pulling our attentions and shaping further our intentions to remind us that, yes, Cheever, we are very much alive.

The cycle of life continues.

"Seasonal Descriptive Disorder", in a sort of manic daydream, a Tchaikovsky pulsebeat and all--eyes to nature--regeneration, "regenerate", instead of past tense "regenerated", as in the ongoing, the infinitive, discarding the past tense for all its weight and lack of worth like so many pounds of waste matter produced in alchemic experiments--why I scream life begets life--and water, such a crucial part of life--80% of my own gelatin, in as much as so much of the ejaculate is mere urine.  Was it "affective" or "effective"?  As in suffering versus efficacy, I wot, that the point is somewhat more of something that flaps the mongoose on the hind-end, urging to response, rather than something passive like a mere feeling.

Why, the mental energy of our various transient feelings--and all of nature a peculiar so misunderstood battery--the little spit of yellow curry dust and all, the pollen is like our own residue, nature shaking off the dust from the corners of its autumn lover's bedroom.

Not a eulogy at all, with nothing dead but all rushing to life and then life-more-abundantly, the awkwardness-es and so forth that require clarification to most--not that, but instead a narration of something yet alive and vibrant, just like a puncture wound or something that one hastens to ignore, yet cannot--the very temper meter of all existence, kind of an axial swingpoint on which so much variously relies--like the proverbial red wheelbarrow--or the discount superstore bicycle.