I went there often as a child to count the lupins on the hill. Those hours, so alive and free of intent, filled my time as I playfully wandered in the fresh morning air – feeling crazy good, almost giddy inside. Going there now – sleepily, sleepily at first they come, a sequence of coloured spaces that help articulate the omnipresent moments arising always from somewhere out of nowhere. As the mind courses through childhood’s visionary gaze, it draws on its aged recollections whose reinvention come purposed with a flicker of joy. Remembering ones childhood, that world without order, emits for some a kind of radiance that shines against the darkness. Why, even at this late hour the monarch butterfly flits among the lupins and does not let me sleep. Looping ambitiously overhead, I am absorbed by its mystery of exchange. Unable to shake its spell, I almost forget where I am.
. . . . .
It takes a while to settle in to this now, to find my bearings and resume again…
Yet, I cannot resist the lupined hills of those yesteryears, where immediately my mind travels
back to that spirited beginning, where only Mother Nature seemed to impose its law on things.
. . . . .
Its silvery hairs are attached to a soft grey-green leaf,
its open whorls climb an erect spike,
its fruit is a pod containing several seeds.
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