Humans have harnessed the wind—as it goes along its merry way to who knows where—to suck water from its hiding place underground and to create power. We image bearers mimic the work of the Spirit, the breath of God.
The cool mornings and slow warm-ups keep the wasps sluggish this time of year. But the late afternoon sun and warm days bring them out to swarm the few fall flowers that remain. Goldenrod, especially, the diner of choice it seems. Like a farmer, collecting the fall crops before the first freeze, so too the winter-loathing wasp gathers nectar—a last sustenance perhaps? While not venturing out in the morning, they redeem the afternoon, busy with the task at hand. What must I learn? What must I attend to?What sluggishness must I throw off, for unlike the wasp, can I not avoid a cold winter of the soul by redeeming the time?
Foreshadow: to represent, indicate, or typify beforehand.
Precursor: one that precedes the approach of another.
These leaves shout something, but what? Are they crying, “Fall is coming,” a herald in this lush land, warning the chlorophyll of its imminent demise? Unashamed of showing their true colors over the need to get out the message, they proudly precede the wonder of blazing hills. And so they go mostly unnoticed: no pointing with oohs and ahs, no photo ops with the kids, no cover photo on Facebook. Self-effacing, a precursor to all the rest.
But foreshadowing connotes a darker theme on the other side of beauty: falling and barrenness, a cessation of rustling. Canopies and shade give way to the realities of disease and the evidence of forgotten wind and ice and careless pruning. A silent world with all its skeletons on display.
Grass blades are trees
To weave your web between,
And dew drops—the decoration
Like neon lights on the strip.
Insignificance unnoticed in the dark
Becomes brilliance highlighted by the dawn.
Then the nostalgia of better days—
Smell the hay field,
Clean cut and earthy.
A transport back
To a summer before suits
And bills and business—
A summer of sailing
On the tree swing
Out and over and splash.
A summer of squash
And chickens and chiggers.
And riding on grandpa’s tractor.
Or is it just parked for the night?
What’s he doing, daddy?
What’s who doing, little bit?
Oh, he’s collecting pollen from that corn stalk.
Why does he do that? Doesn’t the plant need it?
The plant does need it and so does the bee.
But how can they both use it? The plant can’t keep the bee off.
No, the plant wants the bee to take its pollen.
I don’t want someone to take my toys.
No, I suppose not. But the bee takes the pollen back to the hive for food for other bees.
That’s nice. But what about the plant?
The plant needs some of the pollen to move from one place to another so it will grow properly.
But if the bee takes it, how will that happen?
As the bee moves around on the plant, some of the pollen moves around too and gets in the right place.
Oh, so since the plant doesn’t have any fingers, the bee does that?
And so the plant doesn’t care if the bee takes what’s left over.
No, I don’t think the plant cares about leftovers.
But if the plant was stingy and didn’t let the bee come over, it wouldn’t grow, would it?
No, it wouldn’t.
But since it’s not stingy, the bee gets to eat and so do we.
And there’s enough here that we can even have leftovers.
Good thing the plant shared, huh?
Yeah, and I’ll share my corn with you.