Simple Theories

  Watermelons cannot panic. This separates watermelon from human, and from you particularly. It can't be simpler. The vine lengthens and spreads, roaming the earth at a casual pace. The sun's churning energy charmingly begets fuel for the plant. You too, if you pay attention. Requirements of production vis-à-vis watermelon fruit redeem as impoundments of rainwater and care. We all are rich with slightly sweet juice. Life goes forth whether gainsaid or not. The watermelon seems modest but the orb knows better. It reaches in so many ways from that point in time and space. The rationale of growth fills your market eye adorably, providing the lattice of time with purpose. The scurry of little human feet transacts the day, and years beyond, with slinky and sold patterns. So many years, so many products to provide. A person rich in fruit turns to whatever gains the day. Watermelons treat their young like time enhanced by time. They survive as the idea of one. The one declares the rib

  A walking example of startle, moose stand bigger than gradual by a fair shake. They take up space. Space has always needed filling, then emptying, like your lungs. You know this, the years come and go. Moose belong to that part of the deer family that celebrates mass. They arrive at conclusions just like you and me. Males get to carry sprawling antlers to prove ridiculousness is a fund. Females avoid all that truck. The word antler derives from the Vulgar Latin  anteoculare , which means in front of the eye. Well yeah. Like the leaves of the forest, antlers drop off in deciduous fashion. Because of huge, moose prefer eating tall grasses and shrubs, in winter they are stuck with pine cones. Tho enormous and known for territorial insistence, they fit the tapestry well. This tapestry consists in the mycorrhizal network uniting all beings in the life force banjo music. And of course Socialist revolution aims at liberating the wang dang doodle of which moose, big as they are, form a small

Daylilies grab the land in bursting moment, a kindly land grab maybe you could say. They have seen daffodils confine themselves to everything in the single soul brightness of spring. Daylilies in their then and following push the plenitude with ornate quickness. They play like ruffians but in burst. Bursting reminds the second, and time can't fill the cup. A time of blossom doesn't sync with time at all yet syncopation rides. Pastures of rain state the obvious, as do the willowy clouds above. Provinces of natural flowers return the gaze and look ahead.  We are trying our instant love , they say or never even have to say. The garden congests for one last fruitful time and all the ensuing ends of time. Then, then we say once more. Once more is only just a smile, traditional as a kiss. The plenty sparks go deep with gloaming saturation. And there is there.