A Perennial Soul

by nick sirianno

A Perennial Soul

When the pink and floral sun falls through the blue peaked windows of the Victorian home that proudly stands behind the Lake Road of Frederick Law Olmstead’s Point Chautauqua, and when the Miller Bell Tower chimes through the lacy morning fog with its Westminster throng eight strikes and a song from a mile away, the day it lightens, it blesses, it marries.  What leaving Eden does to a man, it drives him wild, turns him into the umbered, crimsoned, and canaried carpet of fall, heavies him into the vineyard bounty, dries his soul into the drifting wood, and breaks him into blossoms.  What harms the man most is his perennial soul.  His intrinsic eagerness to bloom in front of even the ugliest nouns.  Season to season and forever on he fruits in the misanthropic air of natures kind, for what devil makes his garden home and what god claims invisibility?  Nature is the father of the man, and uph ‘isted, he unfolds into heaven his blossomy eyes.

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