On nature: paraphrasing Walt Whitman, I Know Why The Biege Walt Sings

Dare we celebrate ourselves?

I bear witness to a spring rain on a middling warm morning, nourishing the foliage and so on, life begetting itself anew in the seance that is the very hope of the spring season.  It is gentle, that rain, such that the fresh petals of the season are left un-accosted by the raindrops--it is like a celestial inheritance it is, the very thing of waters from the heavens, and as such, we should make of it what we will, in the bacchanal of our own thoughts.

We would find no particular solace in numbers and measurements and such, but as it were, we are but to tune our little foibles to the frequency of nature--that hymnal that all of God's creation sings as we stand in our existential pulpit of our lives and on the tips of our tongues, our own song, that begotten celebration of self.

Some comfortable velvet strand around our wrists--cordial handcuffs, is our nature, our nature, the being of any and all people--and our nature is only as strong a bond as our belief.   At once, the chord restrains, but then, in dreams, we feel it holding us from falling into the loss and misgivings of Sheol itself.  We bump-stop nature, but it can be a very comfortable sort of chicken-feather blanketed thing that seems so often, even with various injuries, welcoming.

Dare us to figure--of the balance of our intrigues and dismal amusements--that cordial belief holds us more cordial still, when we see the consequences and cheerfully heap up our burial mounds--monuments singing out to eternity--a spit of earth that might carry on something of our very spirit, even some decades or centuries yet to be spent--why, we figure there is some expedience owed in our very being, and that there are dreams to be unfolded in the real world before our very eyes?

As much as the elapsing of nature, so too the very cost of our dreams, now matter how easily these traipse before our eyes, as we are enveloped in a sense of natural awe; we do have those simple dreams as dismal as dry soil, and the unbuttered eyes of our familiars, which are as dismal also--a sense of indignation or contempt we would be hard pressed to call up inside ourselves, as easily to simply sit and feel the breeze, than to claw and flail against it.

I bear witness to a spring rain on a middling warm morning--accompanied only by the feeling of decay, nature wearing against a sphincter like the weight of a mountain compounding on top of a chicken egg.  The follicles of grass look happy, and the flowers are opening their dull eyes; I sort of stutter-stepped myself, a sore leg, and that too was like the unfurling of a season in fits and starts, the way it always does, blanching and chilling, blanching and chilling, and sometimes tempura or steaming.

Dare we celebrate ourselves--when betimes, we sneak a glance at nature, and it seems to celebrate, too?