Sometimes, when I get lost in the spring season, I feel I am at the heart of a garden of past and future, surrounded by my plants, flowers, sun and the humid, tropical air.
Soothed by the heavy scent of the earth, by the calling of birds and my fountain in a perfect circle of completed personal searches, with artifacts of memories from every road and time, I collect and disperse my acts with the waves of the pond beside me.
This island has every dream since my beginning.
I have not hidden from the universe. The moon pulls my pool like it would stroke and fondle any tidal sea.
In such a time of power, at the eye of my life, in the harvest of recollections, even armageddon cannot harm me. When doom sears me away or takes me in its tumors, I am wrapped and protected in this immutable place, sheltered by the angels of my mind.
This is Bill Felker with Poor. Will's Almanack. I'll be be back again next week with notes on time and the seasons. In the meantime, let yourself be separated and surrounded by the simple fantasy of yourself the world.
