Or Perhaps It's The Crown Vetch

Or perhaps it’s the crown vetch that takes us through the doorway. The cascade of the pinkpurplewhite flowers coming over the brow of a hill, the bumblebees busy in them. Buzzing. Fumbling. And fumbling some more. A color that reminds us of Jesus’ robe after his Roman beating. But lighter, more full of white. A delicate color that comes over the brow of the hill in the back of one’s house like a crown. A late spring blossoming. A festive and seasonal and sensual and hopeful color and texture and flowingness all hanging down over the edge of the wall. Along the brow of the semi-holy hill full of oak and fern and maple.

Oh, and it dangles and dandles in the breeze in the weekend morning. Just in sun beneath the mile-high trees. As one regards it moving slightly in air, one’s attention moves to the moving light and shadow back in woods. And the hummingbird that comes to suck at the azaleas. The humming and the blur of wings. And the red of the azalea blossoms that are the red of blood spattered in the bushes’ green. A butterfly that makes its way also from blossom to blossom. And suddenly one recognizes the real practical nature of flowers. The real food provided by the beautiful. The real literal food basis of the beautiful things of the world. The God-made loveliness of the world.

The real literal spiritual basis of beauty and how it sucks us into it and makes us fumble in our eyes and in our ears and in our hands and in our mouths and in our minds at it. Turns us into bumbling altar boys and girls at the feast of it. At the light and shadow shifting like many light beings moving about the wood, under a tall canopy of leaves. Leaves that seem light itself way up there. A form of light itself.

And then one understands that all of this. All of these beautiful things. These flowers and the green and the bumbling bees and the humming birds and the butterflies lilting about in air like animated melodic lines in three dimensions. All these are forms of light. Are the material correlatives of light. Are what light itself is for. To reveal these forms. These instantiations. These incarnations. Of itself.

The light itself that is everywhere one looks, today. In everything one sees, in one form or another. Living. Breathing. Light. That tumbles over the brow of the hill. Falling all among the ferns. And the buzzing and humming and shhussing of the wind manifest in leaves are the sounds of light, if it has sounds. The music the light makes traveling down and all around. This beautiful place. This place that surrounds. That seems organized. Around this exotic. This crown vetch that cascades down like an invitation to fumble and frolic on this hill.