Twilight in Autumn

sheltering-oak-resizedbright-detailed

Twilight in Autumn

There’s something lovely about twilight in autumn; the stillness, the serenity of it seems to penetrate into the heart.  As the last glow of day dims, and the shadows recede into nothingness, a peace enters in.  O, that peace that delights the soul and gives evidence that God is near, willing to hear our deepest desires and to share something from His heart with ours.

How strange then is the irony of a loneliness which wells up within.  Perhaps from memories of days long gone, or the silent wish of reliving those moments – a hug, a laugh, a shared dream.  A sigh wisps away from slightly smiling lips and awakens one to the present moment.

Ah, twilight in autumn; where mercy surrounds, and the hope of a new day containing all God’s goodness awaits in the wings.  You are a gentle reminder to pray and to breathe, and I cherish you.

Marianne Coyne copyright September 22, 2016

 

Good day, friends, and welcome to Leisure Lane, with a special welcome to Leisure Lane’s new followers.

I hope the above filled you with the beauty of Autumn.  Perhaps it persuaded you to slow down and take a cup of tea, while you ponder the delights of a new season.  I hope so.  I’m continuing to work on my newest romance book, River Runs Deep.

Thank you for strolling by today.  Until next time, may happy days abound!

Marianne

Note:  The above image is a detail from the original oil painting, Sheltering Oak, by Marianne Coyne.  All rights reserved.

 

Out of the Blue

Path of Hope tree detail 2

Out Of The Blue

     Out of the clear blue the rain begins.  It comes down steadily and straight with great purpose and drive.  Not too heavily, but rather well planned for and evenly tempered.  I remember wise words that sprang forth from the lips of my thirteen year old son.  Nothing comes out of the blue, he said.  There is always something going on behind the scenes, hidden from our eyes.  I’m reminded how much I’ve learned from this young “old soul” – and the rain keeps coming down.

     I watch it press upon the branch of a crape myrtle and wonder to myself of the “rains” that have fallen in my life – out of the blue.  It seems a sullen moment, yet refreshing at the same time.  Rain does refresh, doesn’t it?  It revitalizes, cleanses, and rejuvenates, even in the midst of it’s melancholy facade.  A breeze persuades the branch to sway, like a beautiful, graceful dancer responding to some unheard symphony; shaking off the drops in vain – and the rain keeps coming down.

     The crape myrtle finally slows it’s dance, too heavy with it’s watery fate, and the rain lessens a bit.  Then as suddenly as it disappeared the sun shines once more.  I am moved to reflect on what wonders for my life will be suddenly brought forth, which presently behind the scenes are hidden from my eyes, and my hope is once more restored.  Hope and trust – for who knows what thoughts are in the mind of God.  Who knows what possibilities can be birthed from out of the blue.

Copyright©2003 Marianne Coyne

This prose was a second version of an inspired September afternoon in 2003.  I was so filled with the complete wonder and contemplation of it that I had to write two versions.  I will post the original version closer to September.

Thank you for strolling by Leisure Lane to visit.  I certainly hope that you find your stay here a leisurely opportunity to relax, contemplate, and enjoy the day.

Until next time, may happy days abound!

Marianne

Note:  The above image is an altered detail from an original oil painting, Path of Hope, by Marianne Coyne.  The above prose is written by Marianne Coyne, copyright©2003.  All rights reserved.

 

Forget Me Not

Forget Me Not

Forget Me Not

                I waited in The Vicar’s Garden.  The late morning still held on to the cool, sweet air.  I strolled a while among the flowerbeds along the narrow, stone labyrinth taking in the garden’s beauty, while thinking how the Vicar had labored all spring on his small botanical plot. He arranged the shrubs and flowers in such a lovely fashion.  It was right to name it after him.

I came across the perfumed, white roses the Vicar promised me for my bouquet.  There were quite a few in full bloom, and many more buds just waking from their natal sleep.  Their aroma lifted on a breeze, and I breathed in deeply letting out a sigh of contentment.  But I passed them by.

As I strolled on I thought of you, and the promises we made to each other – the love we shared. The miles that kept us apart were no match for our affection.  I knew you’d come.

The prettiest little forget-me-nots caught my attention.  Their sweet blue faces looked up at me as if they had some great prophetic words to speak.  I bent down to greet them.  I don’t know what possessed me, perhaps it was the ache I briefly felt in my heart, but I picked them for a nosegay.  Suddenly everything in nature seemed still.  Even the breeze, that pleasantly and often made itself known all morning ceased, and I found there to be an uncanny quietness that often precedes a storm.

I, too, remained motionless until a sudden, ghostly zephyr animated my surroundings once again, and chilled through me like an unwelcomed phantom.  I glanced down at those perceptive little blossoms in my hands.  Peering up at me in unison they seemed to lament  “forget-me-not, forget-me-not”, but I knew you’d come.

I continued my reminiscent journey along the pathway of self-knowledge.  Time seemed to have stopped, but it didn’t.  Truthfully it was long passed the hour, but I knew you’d come.

As I found myself standing in the center of the labyrinth.  I looked up; the sound of the metal latch of the back church door caught my attention.  There he quietly and calmly stood.  His graying hair made him seem more comely and sober than ever before.  I smiled at him sagaciously as he glanced at the blooms in my hands, then back to my face.  Our eyes met with an understanding, and I pressed the flowers to my breast.  A willful tear slipped quickly down my cheek as the Vicar slowly closed his holy book and turned back into the church.  It was gracious of him to move first, sparing me from my uneasy and self-conscious position.  I tarried a moment.

I thought my heart would burst, but it didn’t.  Bemused, I began my way back through the labyrinth, but this time on passing the perfumed, white roses that were promised for my bouquet, a thorn tore the sleeve of my dress as if to scorn me for not choosing them.  I ripped off the remnant, and cried and laughed at the irony of the piece; for in my hand the residual, soft yellow cloth took the form of a heart, chiding me for wearing mine on my sleeve.  I ran from the church, across the fields, and up a knoll, where breathlessly I leaned against a tree for support and composure.  There I let the flowers drop from my hand as if at your feet.  “Forget-me-not”, they still chorused, “forget-me-not”!

 

copyright©2003 Marianne Coyne

Note: The above image is from a photo of an original oil painting, “Forget Me Not”, by Marianne Coyne, Copyright©2003.  “Forget Me Not” is an original story by Marianne Coyne.  All rights reserved.

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