The Jupiter’s Beard is the last to bloom, pale pink with bees picking pollen from its bush. The garden out front is on its last legs, the lavender deep purple. On the hillsides back in Germany they’d be out with their buckets now gathering grapes, hoisting them on their backs up the steep Roman steps while fanning off flies, mixing up brandy. Putting on outfits, getting on trains for the beer festival in the Basen, eating donner kebabs late at night drunk on the ride home. The feeling transcends meaning and becomes its own meaning, the call to create. Blood-red panes through the trees, smoky wildfire dusk. The never-ending wonder of a world and the love it inspires could make artists of us all if we could only see it.

Categories: microblogging, travel, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, prose, William Pearse writer