Limes sitting in a crystal bowl, catching the light in zigzags that refract through the glass, glancing off the zest in bounced pools of golden green. Here is a sacred thing of beauty that may be set before a queen, bounty from the tree of life, this glorious energy encapsulated in pitted orbs. Can you smell the viriditas, the freshness, these new mercies offered you every morning? All can be renewed. Take and eat, taste and see that the Lord is good.
Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018
Did we then, pave over Paradise, lost to us now? The concrete jungle grew so fast, who knew that it would spread, disease-like, steamrollering every green thing in its way? Well, here you are, flat and dull and painted with your borderlines, your cartoon people and wheelchairs, all white and flaking. Conveniently maintained and close, with trees strategically tubbed in unusable corners, rootballs festering.
But stand still here, and counterpointing the slamming of car doors, the loading and unloading, there is a whispering, a conferring, a conspiracy of growing things. They will rise up unheeded through the false rock, breaking apart the conglomerate, encroaching on your edges. They will not be thwarted, but spread their dandelion leaves and their sap-song along every unguarded crack in what is after all only surface, conquerors once more, earth regained.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com
Embryos unfurling, stretching to prehistoric patterns. The forest light filtering through your serrations, the unfossilised, fresh-fronded teeth of pure unsullied green. Here is a nursery unravelling then, millions of years of timeless tedium, edenic shapes, untouched touchstone of evolution, perfect pyramids emerging, ancient parchments unrolling to reveal your viriditas vellum, your undeterred, unchanged message. Only the wind rustling the unread pages.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015