I revert to streets whose pitch rises and falls with the heaving earth beneath. Precious plump stones are broadcast accordingly, and the once straight lines of these passages dip and swell under the pressure and over the surging of gravity's expression. These roads reach upwards, and atop an old hill sits majesty donning her cathedral-cap.

The belfry kisses the day goodbye, while the days fading is braided with tolling tremors, and the advent of evening ushers the death of one, with the life of another.

I capitalize on the struck bell, and a day's noting of the slipping sands of time. Particular moments are secured to be recognized as time stands a little aloof; a hallmark is given to that spilled moment, forever abandoned to eternity.


I'm desperatly trying to abandon enigmas, but it seems truth is cloaked in color and clamor these days... Enter our pomegranates, plums, figs, and crushed grapes. I am hearing these clanging bells amidst a protesting pandemonium of splashed earth, and as a new day dawns, moments inch to the culmination of their proposed dawning.
I see these precious fruits, and consider their day of humble beginning. I am compelled to compare the kernel of man to the culmination of their kind. Their ripened hues are perfected in timely graces, and as the matured fruit deepens, so their glory and flavor is magnified.

Perhaps I feel I am always losing at some race I never entered, and yet I am compelled--thrashed--to participate most fully in this marked out course set for my life. I am likening us humans to ripe fruits, for I wonder how often we mature into that most satisfying, and determined stock for which our Creator destined us. I feel the nibs of the frost and daily stop short of His design. Reader, slough with me the superfluous words of my intended communication, and consider the core of your created prototype; are you living as the season intended, and [by God's grace] preparing to reap the bounties destined for harvest in your life? Is each bell's toll sounding forth on unregretted moments framed in your lifetime?


I am not, and thus, I stir us all to consider those sleeping boughs against our own dormant hearts... I pray something of this resounds...