…when the golden mists are born…

My beloved is in repose with the wee lass in the Den.

The older children are upstairs, their voices sing out through the beams and plaster of the ceiling.

From the backyard, I hear Argos woofing at the neighbor`s cat.

Stealing a moment, in the midst of the quietude of my resting household, I wish to sit and recollect some few trifles of this week`s abundance. I only have a handful of minutes before I must be at the church for a meeting, but I will scribble a few lines…

Yesterday, we did little more than lounge about Downtown. We had some stale cereal and breadcrumbs in our pantry, and so that necessitated a trip to feed the numerous ducks that congregate around the City Dock. The streets were bustling with the usual activity of townies and tourists, including the massive influx of Naval Academy alums that were present for the Homecoming game against Rutgers in the afternoon.

There was one moment I wanted to remember, in particular. I was sitting on a bench looking around, watching my children run about… just watching.

Gaelynn was sowing food for the ducks along the edge of the pier, hoping to cajole them near enough for her to pet them.

Israel was climbing the sculpture monument to Alex Haley, to sit on the esteemed author`s lap.

Sophia was throwing cereal at the numerous flitting sparrows that scurried everywhere, chasing them as soon as they began to peck at the food strewn about.

Candace was blissfully watching the wee lass, her eyes moving to meet mine across the way.

In this flickering instance, I felt a sort of stillness… a sense of perfect contentment amidst the rush.

The honking automobiles and teeming throngs, the paint-splattered artists and the cigar-chewing retirees, the sparrow and the ducks, the children and the dogs… all faded into a distant gray haze, and I saw my beloved ones in a brilliant Technicolor.

Days and months, years gone by… times yet to come.

I leaned over the edge of the wall and looked down into the tumbling black water, my reflection undulating with every ebb of the tide. Hair graying at the temple and crown, I yet see myself with whited forelock and low-drawn countenance… my seedling children becoming towering saplings in only a whisper`s breath.

On the keening days like this, as the leaves brown upon the branch, the winds whisper wisdom in my ears. They tell me that my days are as the dying blooms, flourishing in their time only as flowers of the field. My days are as grass, which the Autumn`s winds toss about.

Soon… dying Winter shall come, and all shall rest in only the promise of Spring`s new birth.

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