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the wind tells stories, and its good at it too

by Cosette Alize 4 days ago in Nature
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musing in the garden

the wind tells stories, and its good at it too
Photo by Henry Be on Unsplash

The wind tells stories. It’s good at it too, better than anything I could ever contrive. With every wisp of a breeze that touches the human senses, you are gifted pictures, memories and glimpses of a spoken, invaluably real world. Yes. Of course a spoken world is audible; even by the means of the mysterious invisible movements that rustle leaves, erode mountains, and destroy peaceful dwellings simply with its breath. How old is the wind? How old is the lore it has carried to the ears of mankind since the Earth was born?

My eyes are shut. They are shut lightly, allowing the daylight that seeps in through the cracks in my eyelids to remind my consciousness that I am awake; alive. My hands are pressed on my sides into the new white bench in my garden. The paint is smooth. It has not seen many days under the sun, it does not know yet the shameful deterioration that the merciless sun and the warping rain brings.

I listen, forcing my body to stay still. The stories the wind tells me are familiar. Crisp but feathery sounds, near, and on my left. The sweet peas. My heart sinks a little. Their flourishing days have come to an end. Without opening my eyes, I know the scarce and wilted blooms that jut out from the top of the rusty trellis. But the wind does not care to remind me of these final, sweet smelling, tastes of spring. The wind reminds me of an old truth: the spring is ending, the gentle pleasures have lost their beauty, the hearty and rich, deeply green and proud, are soon to arrive. Summer has staked its claim on my domain; my square I call garden. But the invisible breath touches my senses with a more recent pleasure. Smooth and lofty sounds, also to my left, but further away and taller. I know my guardian roses well. They keep my garden from the heat of this western sun and surrender themselves to its ways. The way the maker intended: the leaves transform the magical rays into food and the relished gift of that vibrant color. The leaves are quietly green, the roses, newly blooming, do not boast of their beauty or of their astonishing fragrance. They are content to be tied to my metal archway. They are content being the first buds of the summer and they are rewarded by not having to share their season with any other. Perhaps I could learn something from these lofty creations.

I open my eyes. I watch as the invisible hand tickles the tendrils of the Cosmos, yet unflowered the wind makes no sound as it passes through the Cosmos’ bright and fresh leaves, infantile do it’s ways appear. They are young, but they have no fear of the death that awaits them in only a few months. They look forward to their first blooms. What matter is death when such glory awaits them? What matter is a death that brings forth a life and legacy a thousand times more prosperous than that of its own?

My eyes wander around my small garden. It is so still. There is no activity, but there is abundance of life. The fountain directly in front of me reminds me that I am not yet in eternity, though my garden feels near at times. Life still deteriorates. The second hand terracotta birds dance excitedly around an epicenter that gives no reward. The basin is dry and the mechanics breathed their last only a few weeks ago. The neighborly hummingbirds and finches have lost their favorite bathing spot, and I, the pleasure of watching their neat work. But they no longer eat my sprouts, and isn’t that well? I am surprised to find that I would rather watch all the care I have given into the four simple raised beds be devoured than desire those tiny creatures to prefer another’s sanctuary. O that water may flow forth from that rude structure I call fountain again. The dancing terracotta birds are thirsty, how could I deny them their pleasure?

My eyes shift from the garden and to the sky. It is fuzzy with clouds. It is cool. Today is odd for May, it does not speak of the coming summer. The wind told me a truer tale than what my eyes perceive. Why should this surprise me? After all, if wisdom comes with age, then the wind is far more sage than I.

Nature

About the author

Cosette Alize

I write stories, because I live a story. No fantasy world will ever compare to the one we live in. I want to describe our world in a way that reveals the Creator's magic, and write fantasy world's in a way that illuminates our reality.

Reader insights

Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

Top insight

  1. Heartfelt and relatable

    The story invoked strong personal emotions

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