The seasons shift in slow motion, abruptly turn, and then often change their mind.

The laughaholics of the flower world are deciding to party come what may. The daffodils are daring to look ridiculous in a somber world and giggle away the grey. Perhaps we could all don a bright scarf and help them out. Let's go for a walk.

I start most days with a walk in nature. It is only on Wednesday I also crow about it. We can thank @tattoodjay for that. His blog is ALWAYS a thing of beauty.

The seaside mounds are giving birth to frilly suns; but the sky is still in mourning; the trees naked and self-flagellating in the wind.

My guess the pitiless penance will not go on for much longer. The world is going to get daffy.

The daffodils for every inch of their over-dressed beauty were not the show stoppers of this morning's stroll; no, that honour belongs to a discarded piece of blue glass.

A bottle? A bell? I do believe it is indeed a stopper of some sorts and today, a wonderful piece of accidental art. I was tempted to take it home but decided instead to leave it where it lay; perhaps another will find as much delight in a discard of humanity as I did.

The making of art really is subjected. One person's trash is another's metaphoric lesson or sublime moment of zen. One person's art is the heartless mirth found in a flower bloomed too soon. The poor dear above arrived at the gala early and completely under-dressed.

She Should Have Worn Black

dressed in yellow
she looks up
to where so many
look down
some on bended knee

proposals made by the dozens
each made earnestly
at the time
how many avowals of
to have and to hold
contain commitment and longevity
follow-through
how many fade and drift in the wind
crumble with the late-autumn leaves

the mighty tower’s flimsy shadow
dims to a concrete bleach
insubstantial affection
a thinly-spread spectre of the real thing
washes away in the mid-day sun
only to be re-dyed a familiar hue
come later afternoon

similar but never the same

the mighty tower’s shallow shadow
is inked-out come night-fall

Always

anxiously
she waits
he promised
to return

he promised
to love only her
forever
turns out forever …
lasted not even a year

she wore the yellow dress
he asked her to wear
she should have worn black
blended with the shadows
buried her feelings within

Not too worry gentle hearts and true blue romantics, everything, even overly-frilly dresses, come round; and eventually even your out-of-style shabby will, with time, once again, becomes all the rage.

I am feeling a prophecy coming on ... yes, the new style sensation will be called Techno-Bo-Ho. We shall adorn ourselves with discarded glass, dead flowers, and frayed wired.

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