soon, almost, here then

"Soon", he thought, and pushed the first gate open. Dew kissed-fiddleheads unfurled and baptized the footpath with a mist's mist.

"Almost" he offered, walking through the second and third gates.

Pollen painted the air currents in an ever changing canvas wed to light and earth and transience.

"Here then" he opined, and setup shop after the fourth gate. The fifth was rusted shut, the 6th and 7th just hints on the horizon, and the first three of no interest. Clearly, this was his spot.

Three fields rolled down from his spot to the river, and after tilling, seeding, and watering, he sat ‘neath an Aspen's whispering silverleafs and waited.

The first field, seeded with belief, was quick to flower but faded under the seasons' duress. The second, seeded with reason, was less colorful than belief but deep rooted and consistent. The last, seeded with paradox, was somehow the least tangible as well as the most revealing of the three.

Faith was hired as a day labourer when the harvests became too much. She started with the gates, then worked the soil and the sky, finally sitting down beneath the Aspen and humming notes of context that wed the fields together in full emptiness.

"Soon" he thought, furling the fields and tucking them carefully under a chair in front of his heart's hearth.

"Almost" he offered as he checked and oiled the gates for his next visit

"Here then" he opined as Faith wrapped the the whole vision in Grace, poetry and symbols, and seeded reminders at the most important intersections of his life.