The same seaweed here borne on a rib bone of black basalt, plastered tight into every crevice and pocket, streaming down it’s face.
What do we see in patterns? What is it we want to see in patterns? What patterns do we notice, look closer at and plug into, thus becoming the pattern. The plant splashes every summer upon the ocean’s bath tub ring; rimming the stone basin of it’s cradle, arriving early and now leaving so soon.
Waves and wind are mild, the sun at it’s zenith in the north. Here be a giant of earth, festooned with the Goddesses verdant tress, a favored son for his position of moment.
Ascension to her throne of high achievement was by the fortune of a mild winter’s pass along her kingdom’s shore. The countenance of creation seeking the wind and sun; homage to the winged creatures above whose white blessings nurture and sustain, assuming their image and smelling the same. Once slender bubbly lime light threads of glory are now transformed into airy feathers that fluff the soft wind.
Low at her feet lies a last cradle of life for the season, compact and conserving, in service and autonomous at the same time.
A pair of tiny snails in their catch-pocket ark of stone. An agate’s epochal skin grins with the knowledge of far vaster stretches of time, welcoming the polish and beauty of being weathered away to sand, rejoining its brethren mineral elements in a timeless cycle.
Water is the universal solvent, it can in time dissolve anything. The Earth sloshes it’s life blood around in the great catch pockets of oceans, air and sun play over the seas and lift it over rocks, mountains and plains. All life catches water to it’s ability… drinks it, swims in it, grows with it. To be mindful of waters cycle on the planet is a task looming over the human race like a perfect storm. There are seasons we as humans can comprehend, seasons incomprehensibly greater in scope we can’t. Patterns are mirrors large and small, echoing the cosmic dance of particles and pulsars, green seaweed and galaxies.