Tonight I sat under the geometry of my pergola. I looked at how the the graying dark sky stood as a canvas against the vertical lines of the copper roof on the garage, softened by the blooming white Japanese Lilac. The catalpa leaves so gigantic and heartshaped, dripped off the branches, swathed in blossoms. The air was filled with a sweet essence that can only be described as subtle. Unlike the harsh Spring lilac and its brazen perfume, this is rather like the way you catch a whiff, just a touch of something long forgotten.
The world keeps on humming. The traffic rushes by, the lawnmowers growl in the twilight. I listened to the fountain gurgle, babble and pop. I watched the fading blossoms from my trees drift down from high above, like a gentle snowstorm. Slow and fat, like huge pieces of popcorn landing without a sound, covering the lawn in a white fluffy blanket. As soon as they land they begin to decompose, tommorrow they will be shriveled and brown.
I thought, we are too hurried in this life. We need more poetry. We need more time.
