There is a bright white quality to the light this morning. The sun sparkles as it filters through the leaves of the oaks to the east. The morning light is even, the colors in the garden pure. Lavender petunias, yellow alamandas, red impatiens. The fuchsia of the final myrtle cluster. The white of a lone rose. All untainted by the pink or orange or gold of dawn.
The dark clouds have lifted, the storm has drifted north. Last night's rain has washed summer from the air, at least for one morning. When she returns, her heat will be half-hearted as though she knows her days are numbered and she can no longer bring herself to give her best. We enter the time between, the twilight of summer before we throw our windows open to embrace the fall into night. The dying embers of a once raging fire, warm, no longer blazing.
The morning is full of motion. The wind sways the branches of the myrtle as though they are bobbing for apples in the bird bath, or seeking to shed the clusters of berries that replaced their flowers overnight. Pine needles, brown and sere, spiral down to carpet the lawn. The chimes on the porch ring a five note harmony. The air is dry, the sound carries like carillon.
A year ago, I sat on the porch trying to capture the sounds and scents of another equinox two days early. My desire was to write, to keep writing. To mark the cardinal points of the coming year, to celebrate their midpoints with words. Eight messages were my goal. At the winter solstice I got caught up in someone else's adventure and poured my energy into that instead. The remaining five still flew from my mind, sometimes on battered wings, sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes barely taking flight. But they held the air if not always soaring.
That small accomplishment inspired other messages, other musings. They are my experiences, they are my expression. They are my visions, sometimes confessions. They are exercises to keep my mind from dwelling on what might have been, what might yet go wrong. They are the ones I feel are good enough to share. Some days, they are the only thing I write. They are my commitment, one taken a year ago, in similar light, in similar weather.
So this morning finds me savoring that pure white light as it casts clouds of flame upon my desk after passing through the red and orange glass panel in my window aptly titled Serenity. I hope the coming equinox finds you as peaceful and content.
© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III
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