Once Upon a Tomorrow-Time
By Christopher Pieterszoon Routheut
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Once Upon a Tomorrow-Time
The riverland's red. Red sunrises supposedly omen overbearing, storm-stricken days. Delightful days supposedly supervene on all red, resplendent sunfalls.
Since his half-remorseful and -resentful father, firm-lipped and low-spoken, sent him here, and he garlanded greenery and flowers for his heart-sundered sister and mother, and the mantel behind the bronze-clasped coffin—Since that so-long-lingering and long-ago othertime, the florist's felt that the riverland's red sunrises and sunfalls are all the same. Seeing both burn, he hears hummingbirds, and sees snapdragons and petunias and pentas forever flowering. The florist slowly says he hears the peenting, passing nighthawk now, and knows hummingbirds have woken and will be brightly back and forth, fast flying the summer sky.
The ladkin's listened, uninterruptedly, and understands, somewhat, and speaks slowly, wondering: Will the florist finally retire, roam the skyline, and snip the far, flourishing sunflowers, the sunrise- and sunfall-flowers?
The florist shrugs, and shoulders his hooped-stringed snippers.
The ladkin looks and suddenly says he has seen sky-streaking fire. The florist can climb the dawns, descend the darkfalls, and gather gold, gold-orange, orange-red, red-raving, burning beauty.
The florist finds it incredible. The ladkin, lean and skilled, strong and hale—He himself couldn't climb the dawns, descend the darkfalls, and arrange, around a sempervirent cypress vase, vibrant fire-flowers in impressive arrangements unseen, undreamed of, previously? Pah.
The ladkin's listened, somewhat, and soon realises the riverland's sunrises and sunfalls are all dragons' dashing fire. The far tree tops are all bent back from fire-breath blasted windstrong. Once upon a tomorrow-time, he'll have his home with the wide-sky-soaring and plummeting, pouncing dragons.
The demure, and then slightly smiling, florist feels his harsh sunburn, and says the ladkin'll languish from fireburns.
The ladkin looks disappointed. Does this spider stick in its web? Will this same spider choke chewing the web? Once his half-covered, crusted-with-wanning-muck-and-mud skin's scaled and strong, all armoured green-gold, the ladkin'll live with whirling fire and feel nothing.
Now the florist folds his hands. He looks long upon a hummingbird hovering and brumming, backwards- and sideways-sliding, fast flying topsy-turvy, and afterward asks if, eventually, the little ladkin'll be breathing fire, and flying the scorched sky, the dragon descending darkfalls, dawn-climbing, and clawing the silver stars.
The ladkin's listened, and smiles, and says, 'Yes'. Years ago, a serpent—'sper-MAT-uh-ZUHN? SPER-muh-TOE-zuhn?'—circled itself into an unbroken egg. Everyday, the egg and the serpent strengthened together till he hatched. The little ladkin himself hatched. Later, the ladkin hesitantly half-walked, and then walked true, and tomorrow, he'll have his wings and will fly the far sunrise and sunfall. He'll have his home with the wide-sky-soaring and plummeting, pouncing dragons, daringly seize stars stolen, and secretly hoarded high, unseen, unknown, for faint centuries, and scatter the stars down dark blue and black midnight, much like lastingly silver, sparkling coins cast down dark wishing wells.
The florist faces the ladkin, and looks long, and slowly says he has not, and never will, wish upon a star, and softly says he has not, and never will, wish upon a coin cast deep, desperately. Finally, the florist's speech slows and softens to total silence. Soon, he hears hummingbirds. He suddenly sees hummingbirds hovering, glistening green and ruby-red-throated through their forest: flowers, tall and teeming. The florist, firm-lipped and low-spoken, says he'll head here once, when the ladkin's long left and has his home. He'll head here, and he'll garland greenery and flowers for the mantel. Maybe he'll hear again, above his head, hidden in the embrowning sky somewhere, the nighthawk. Next, the florist, finally retired—resigned—will watch the beauty burn, and descend the darkfall once, once upon a tomorrow-time.
Winterfade: White Within White
From the fading cityscape and skyline, from the fast-falling snow, silently, the snow-owl outflies. It indraws its wide wings and pitches, plain against a dark deadfall and rampike, and rises between blurring streetlights and snowy cedars, and is indistinguishable from the fading cityscape and skyline. From the fast-falling snow, silently, the snow-owl's outblotted.
The Evening of a Season
Idyllic in the east, the evening of a season. Serene, on all meadows, momently, grass glances, sun-struck. Lambent, lapsing rills; river-curve cattail-land lit in immingling glowing gold and glowing orange; orchid-brightened banksides; damask and dapple, shadow and shoreshine; hind-, hart-, and fawn-forded shallows showing tracks, trampled reefs and riverweeds, until a sunbeam streaks colour; culvers circling, spreading splendid underwings, abruptly plunging, pitching bridgelong, busy-beaked, bickering-purple-puccoon-plume-throated, thoraxed, upperbreasted, utterly iridine, and idle-winged, wiggling close, coterieing, burbling; bridged rivernarrows, rare-flowered and founting-flowerful; the river running on, all reflexion and resplendence under uncovered sky; sighing reeds; receding-hillslope holdfasts whipped with vines violascent and virent, corymbed and quivering-leaved, leaved luxuriantly; hilltop hickory and old oak, soft-songed: all are sensuous and soon like lighttime-blooming beauty, bloodroot and daisies day-blowing, before the approach of dusk, distinct images illapsing into indistinctness. The season, serene-sunned summer, edulcorate, intenerate, is ending.
Encompassing dusk drives the mild, the melodious, deep down, down south, subliming the southern summer. The sun sets: westers woldward, oceanward, over foreign and forbidden regions, receding and receding, drawling dawnward, toward tomorrow. The northward and the knolly, eastward evening-fishers' footpaths, bramble- and brake-inveined, impaved on all the summerdusk saunters, are already keen, cool, cool blue-black and starkshadowed and starshone. All are still.
Something scintillates. Lurid and looming and jagged jacklights uprush above a hunters' haunt. Hilltop crashes and clamour pash the pristine silence. Sudden rushes, riverward, split and splinter hillslope holdfasts. What was whipped, whips away. Again and again, jumbles justle and plash. Past reeds and reefs, the river churns. Change is impendent.
Summer-sun-warmed wood cools and creaks, augurs autumn. Morning mist dissipates. Deep in immingled greens glows the first fall-flame, and now, nobody'd need sight. Swift insight, imagination, immediately completes the conflagration: the reflective river aflare, a greenweald grown gold, gold-orange, orange-red, red-resplendent in the intense midday, the meridian, of an ultrasensuous season. Summer's forgotten. Fall's flourishing.
The riverland's red. Red sunrises supposedly omen overbearing, storm-stricken days. Delightful days supposedly supervene on all red, resplendent sunfalls.
Since his half-remorseful and -resentful father, firm-lipped and low-spoken, sent him here, and he garlanded greenery and flowers for his heart-sundered sister and mother, and the mantel behind the bronze-clasped coffin—Since that so-long-lingering and long-ago othertime, the florist's felt that the riverland's red sunrises and sunfalls are all the same. Seeing both burn, he hears hummingbirds, and sees snapdragons and petunias and pentas forever flowering. The florist slowly says he hears the peenting, passing nighthawk now, and knows hummingbirds have woken and will be brightly back and forth, fast flying the summer sky.
The ladkin's listened, uninterruptedly, and understands, somewhat, and speaks slowly, wondering: Will the florist finally retire, roam the skyline, and snip the far, flourishing sunflowers, the sunrise- and sunfall-flowers?
The florist shrugs, and shoulders his hooped-stringed snippers.
The ladkin looks and suddenly says he has seen sky-streaking fire. The florist can climb the dawns, descend the darkfalls, and gather gold, gold-orange, orange-red, red-raving, burning beauty.
The florist finds it incredible. The ladkin, lean and skilled, strong and hale—He himself couldn't climb the dawns, descend the darkfalls, and arrange, around a sempervirent cypress vase, vibrant fire-flowers in impressive arrangements unseen, undreamed of, previously? Pah.
The ladkin's listened, somewhat, and soon realises the riverland's sunrises and sunfalls are all dragons' dashing fire. The far tree tops are all bent back from fire-breath blasted windstrong. Once upon a tomorrow-time, he'll have his home with the wide-sky-soaring and plummeting, pouncing dragons.
The demure, and then slightly smiling, florist feels his harsh sunburn, and says the ladkin'll languish from fireburns.
The ladkin looks disappointed. Does this spider stick in its web? Will this same spider choke chewing the web? Once his half-covered, crusted-with-wanning-muck-and-mud skin's scaled and strong, all armoured green-gold, the ladkin'll live with whirling fire and feel nothing.
Now the florist folds his hands. He looks long upon a hummingbird hovering and brumming, backwards- and sideways-sliding, fast flying topsy-turvy, and afterward asks if, eventually, the little ladkin'll be breathing fire, and flying the scorched sky, the dragon descending darkfalls, dawn-climbing, and clawing the silver stars.
The ladkin's listened, and smiles, and says, 'Yes'. Years ago, a serpent—'sper-MAT-uh-ZUHN? SPER-muh-TOE-zuhn?'—circled itself into an unbroken egg. Everyday, the egg and the serpent strengthened together till he hatched. The little ladkin himself hatched. Later, the ladkin hesitantly half-walked, and then walked true, and tomorrow, he'll have his wings and will fly the far sunrise and sunfall. He'll have his home with the wide-sky-soaring and plummeting, pouncing dragons, daringly seize stars stolen, and secretly hoarded high, unseen, unknown, for faint centuries, and scatter the stars down dark blue and black midnight, much like lastingly silver, sparkling coins cast down dark wishing wells.
The florist faces the ladkin, and looks long, and slowly says he has not, and never will, wish upon a star, and softly says he has not, and never will, wish upon a coin cast deep, desperately. Finally, the florist's speech slows and softens to total silence. Soon, he hears hummingbirds. He suddenly sees hummingbirds hovering, glistening green and ruby-red-throated through their forest: flowers, tall and teeming. The florist, firm-lipped and low-spoken, says he'll head here once, when the ladkin's long left and has his home. He'll head here, and he'll garland greenery and flowers for the mantel. Maybe he'll hear again, above his head, hidden in the embrowning sky somewhere, the nighthawk. Next, the florist, finally retired—resigned—will watch the beauty burn, and descend the darkfall once, once upon a tomorrow-time.
Winterfade: White Within White
From the fading cityscape and skyline, from the fast-falling snow, silently, the snow-owl outflies. It indraws its wide wings and pitches, plain against a dark deadfall and rampike, and rises between blurring streetlights and snowy cedars, and is indistinguishable from the fading cityscape and skyline. From the fast-falling snow, silently, the snow-owl's outblotted.
The Evening of a Season
Idyllic in the east, the evening of a season. Serene, on all meadows, momently, grass glances, sun-struck. Lambent, lapsing rills; river-curve cattail-land lit in immingling glowing gold and glowing orange; orchid-brightened banksides; damask and dapple, shadow and shoreshine; hind-, hart-, and fawn-forded shallows showing tracks, trampled reefs and riverweeds, until a sunbeam streaks colour; culvers circling, spreading splendid underwings, abruptly plunging, pitching bridgelong, busy-beaked, bickering-purple-puccoon-plume-throated, thoraxed, upperbreasted, utterly iridine, and idle-winged, wiggling close, coterieing, burbling; bridged rivernarrows, rare-flowered and founting-flowerful; the river running on, all reflexion and resplendence under uncovered sky; sighing reeds; receding-hillslope holdfasts whipped with vines violascent and virent, corymbed and quivering-leaved, leaved luxuriantly; hilltop hickory and old oak, soft-songed: all are sensuous and soon like lighttime-blooming beauty, bloodroot and daisies day-blowing, before the approach of dusk, distinct images illapsing into indistinctness. The season, serene-sunned summer, edulcorate, intenerate, is ending.
Encompassing dusk drives the mild, the melodious, deep down, down south, subliming the southern summer. The sun sets: westers woldward, oceanward, over foreign and forbidden regions, receding and receding, drawling dawnward, toward tomorrow. The northward and the knolly, eastward evening-fishers' footpaths, bramble- and brake-inveined, impaved on all the summerdusk saunters, are already keen, cool, cool blue-black and starkshadowed and starshone. All are still.
Something scintillates. Lurid and looming and jagged jacklights uprush above a hunters' haunt. Hilltop crashes and clamour pash the pristine silence. Sudden rushes, riverward, split and splinter hillslope holdfasts. What was whipped, whips away. Again and again, jumbles justle and plash. Past reeds and reefs, the river churns. Change is impendent.
Summer-sun-warmed wood cools and creaks, augurs autumn. Morning mist dissipates. Deep in immingled greens glows the first fall-flame, and now, nobody'd need sight. Swift insight, imagination, immediately completes the conflagration: the reflective river aflare, a greenweald grown gold, gold-orange, orange-red, red-resplendent in the intense midday, the meridian, of an ultrasensuous season. Summer's forgotten. Fall's flourishing.
Christopher Pieterszoon Routheut rambles riverbanks, but he has never dreamt of beautiful constellations, nor garlanded greenery.