When language was young, bright lights were rare and meaningless. Trees could not doctor a frog or patiently remove time. Night was borne but Language barely stayed. Exclamation became a grace note in long guttural longings of sonic impulse. Language only felt right. Pictures were brief moments of motion, like a rabbit but flatter. Pictures wanted certainty in a blaze. Certainty was just a rock or stick, sometimes a cloud, like heaven in your mind. How could language be anything but a slicing noise in the candid empty and only implied. What is implication but the rushing sound of grass. Language doesn’t stick out. It is landscape. A breeze, the effort of leaves, muttering doves, underground surgings, oh language began some time, ago. Now what can you say after language? A steady rock in your mind remains.
The green earth resists patience. The green earth bets on spring. The green earth occludes in the jamming space of time. Do you have memories of planting, yourself? Effective vision of radiant impulse applies. Waiting simply concedes. The energy of process grinds in chlorophyll. All time and then some time. It takes a bit of reflection to spot the formation. The whole green of green populates a thought. A triumph, you may say, of instant, living. You have time to say sorry, you have time to restore. The greening elegantly stretches. Time becomes a bit in monstrance, no other language applies. That love is the creature itself, green as the gaining. However the practice, picnic in a grove, astonished restart, the language full of words for what. Here is the resonant and complex, daily flash green on green on applying green.