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There is a certain calmative effect engendered by the rhythmic sweeping of a courtyard.
See that massive tree towering over my courtyard, resplendent in its summer livery? Hiding within that livery lurk spots of bright orange, thousands of tiny seeds. Circular seeds. Hard seeds. Seeds that are now, in this fading summer that never-was, falling inexorably onto the bitumen and courtyard below. Just yesterday, I heard the first crunch-crunch as the passing traffic squashed them into oblivion. Noisily into oblivion.
Those that fall into my courtyard, do so silently, but nevertheless messily.
Following that denuding. comes the autumnal falling of leaves, and leaves, and leaves. For months on end. Seemingly until the lime shoots find their way through the branches with the turn into the spring. But before they sprout into incipient leaves, we have the floating of 'fluff'.
A spawning if you will ... a mess of a spawning.
A cycle that encompasses the year. A year of messes, which require sweeping. And sweeping is such sweet solace.
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3 comments:
You have a beautiful courtyard and a beautiful way with words. It will be hard to leave this. I'm glad you get solace from sweeping since you have so much to do.
The sound of sweeping paths always takes me back to the early morning in Asian cities. A walk around the streets before they are growling with traffic there is always little old people to be found rhythmically sweeping.
When I sweep my driveway I sweep with them in my mind and feel tranquil.
That is certainly a large tree, Julie, and if you find solace in sweeping, I'm sure you'll find plenty.
It's beautiful, though, isn't it?
What kind of tree is it? When I enlarge the photo, the seeds almost look like fruit.
K
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