The life that appears on its own is thriving, achieving its maximum growth, blooming, expanding to fruition.
How we love to see it, the verdancy that happens without us, even in spite of us. We call them weeds, and all honor to the name.
They tower above us, alive with bees and butterflies and wasps and wind, and growing seed, thunderheads rising behind them. A storm seems the logical next thing, something powerful and dangerous and life-giving.
We are part of it. We belong. We are wild and given to excess. We feel the heat of the sun, and the shock of the rain, and the thrill of forces beyond our comprehension. We open ourselves to it, for we have this moment, and we are sure of that, and not much else.
We are alive at the end of July and full of praise for what exists.
copyright 2010, J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
