[From Google...the garden of saint paul's hospital ('leaf-fall') by Van Gogh, 1889]
Maybe if he were at home, he would be caught under layers of paint literally, instead of looking out the window, as if enchanted, deep in autumn's meanderings.
A divine hand seemed to be mocking him, with tons and tons of yellow leaves painted to trees just a while ago, would have been green. And he, in his melancholia lost to staring at all that yellow.
Sometimes i think, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time.
Consider the bees hovering over yellow ixoras, gathering sustenance. Leaving footprints of pollen.
Looking at them do we think of fierce stings, like thorns on a pretty rose bush. Or the buzz of honey making in abstract cone like mosaic cubes, poured golden into jars within reach, on grocery shelves to sweeten temperaments on tea craved days.
We are in our 100 Days of Christmas celebrating on the radio with musical genres themed for the festival by our local artistes and singers and too some of the traditional pieces
You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance or
eg the rite of afternoon tea). Welcome to Monday WRites #267: A Happy Monday to all
