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Joe says it's spitting and won't eat al fresco with me sitting on a raincoat flung over a wet chair;
but I'm glad to, for the savors of the eye with the palate:
rain-silvered grasses, drops lodged before the curve of their 'coaster falls,
bright dyes of dandelions on their tufted scumble brushes, the same as stained my daughter's hand yesterday preparing dandelion wine with her mother,
and that utterly OTT, twee confection-box-lavish display which is emerging apple blossom, (the white of the pear in background now thinning significantly) epitome of nature's 'commercial art' flogging itself to the doting bees, that's the wheeze, for the production of little green apples.
Just when the last of brunch is scooped the blackbird begins his afternoon concert; the notes flow down-throat with brown coffee twinkling within this esophagus; they dance about the 'raspberries and cream' of the apple blossom, dislodge silver drops from weighed grass-blades - plummet to green, synesthetic seas.
..........
Joe is one of my sons. The title 'Synesthetic Sunday' was inspired by Dr Seuss' fun book 'Whacky Wednesday'.
