Sunday, March 20, 2011

"Strawberry Moon"

Super Moon, 8:17 p.m. Downtown Helen, Georgia

I sat on a swinging, green park bench, whilst watching the son in bouncing characters set on elastic springs. The husband's silhouette was carrying her on his back, as she hurled her legs in pendulum motion, mimicking monkey shrills across the bars.

The park was settled on a hill, which rose above the German architecture facade, covered by hugging blossoms. Spring was here. The night's warmth and sensory filled my body in complete unison. There was a slow-motion-moving-action picture taking place before me, blurry in all forms. My eyes might have looked glazed against the moonshine. My body must have been in standstill. My frame aligned with gravity against the green steel with my thoughts running (as they always do).

The moon was rotund, larger than usual, and glowing. The intrinsic lines of the familiar:

"The blossoms fell down like white feathers,
the grass was as warm as a bed, and the young man
full of promises, and the face of the moon
a white fire."

The ambivalence of those women reminded me contradictions occur daily. Moments are fleeting. Life is simultaneous. The equivalent of sorrow and joy must coexist.