What does your ideal home look like?
My ideal home looks exactly like the one I am living in right now. In the country, surrounded by trees, with blossoming crab apples in the front garden and a mountain ash in full view from the kitchen window, what more could I ask for? Blossoms in the spring, a gradual flowering throughout the summer, and now, as fall approaches, the fruit ripening.
Verde, que te quiero verde. – Green, for I love you green. But what exactly is green? I sit on the front porch in the cool of summer, and look out on a sea of greens – green grass, green leaves, light green, medium green, dark green, and all kinds of shades and hues as the sunlight filters a subtle dance of colors through the leaves. The eye distinguishes so many different shades of green. Alas, I do not have the vocabulary to distinguish verbally what I see visually. Ah, poor poet, linguistically damaged, and writing with one hand tied behind my back, I suffer from an ability to feel and an inability to express. Terminological inexactitudes, Winston Churchill called them. But in my case, they are the lies I must create when the truth overwhelms me with its beauty.
And in winter, when the cold winds blow, and the leaves lose the safety of their trees to be blown hither and thither at the wind’s will, what then? A blanket of whiteness, shadows shifting beneath the moon by night, and a million brilliant sparkles beneath the sun by day. And the visitors, every night the deer come, stay awhile, then vanish, only to reappear the next day. At midnight, in the moonlight, I watch them from my window as they dance on their hind legs and nibble the hanging fruit that the mountain ash reserves, just for them, so that they will survive, as they have done for millennia, in this paradise that surrounds my ideal home.
rogermoorepoet 