七月间，人们有余暇观察树叶绿翠的千差万别。这不再是成熟度上的差异，因为所有的树木，或转苍翠，或呈墨绿，色调均已定格，从而展现出来的，并非时节上的不同，而是各自品格上的差异。几乎各种绿色，品味凝重，既不流于悒郁，也不失之沉闷，它具有一种深沉、日常的色泽，与灰暗的苍穹浑然一体，构成庄重却非一眼可见的和谐，故而在游览扫掠的目光看来，可能会有阳春繁景过后的平淡之感。一如黎明之后11点的光景。
凝重，乃是最贴切的字眼——不是时近黄昏的阴沉，亦非黑夜之中的森然。七月白昼的葱郁树木，体现出普通的美，常见的清新，是一种如同黑夜白昼般惯常而又永恒不变的不解之谜。童年时代，我们看到黎明和夏天日出盛景，会油然生出一股日后无法充分保留、也难以完全恢复的奋激狂喜;同时，对四月和四月的日暮黄昏，还产生一种陶然忘情的欣赏共鸣——一种为之怦然心动的神驰向往，进入壮年之后，又无可挽回地逐渐淡化平息。
只有阅历丰富的慧眼，才能感受到白昼本身的夏末时令固有的诗意——这双慧眼已久未获满足矣，同时也摆脱了厌倦感，此刻发现在自然界，即使最常见的景物也另有一番情趣;诚然，面对仲夏红日的喷薄欲出，已不再有敬畏之情;凝望四月的苍茫暮色，也不会比一无阅历的童年，引发更多的联想，然而，对司空见惯的日常景象——树木葱茏的盛夏，日过中天的午后，来而复去、变幻不定的每一片云天，还有幽暗的榆树——反倒会投以新的目光。
拉开了房间东边电脑上方的窗帘，感觉自己仿佛身处一个神圣的剧场，面前是一座天蓝色的舞台。邻居家树丛上飘着的一片小小的云，就像杰米·杜兰特的大鼻子，一会儿，云朵渐渐向北飘移，大鼻子也就散了。天空的云继续漂浮着，大的、小的、飘向它们应该飘向的地方。缕缕白云或前行，或散去，这最自然不过了。
树梢随风轻摆，像向上攀附云朵，也像在嘲笑云朵。树肯定在想自己才是实实在在、稳稳扎根的重量级人物，而云朵只不过是积聚的水珠，常常挡住太阳的光辉。其实树也是一种云，是绿叶做的云，是只能轻微浮动的云。树会成长、变化、消失，就跟天空的浮云一样。
我不也是一朵云吗?一朵会思考有感情有欲望的云。我不是也像云朵一样左右摇晃犹豫不定吗?我不是也经常不经意间就在他人面前表现荒谬可笑的想法吗?在感受到爱的微风和怜悯的温暖时，我不也像一朵朝北游走的浮云吗?
若浮云如人，人亦如浮云，我们是否都应该飘，感受风的力量，让我们一时扎根这里，一时又把我们拔起吹走?难道我们真的就如自己想象中的那样稳如磐石吗?
让我飘吧!我要向天高歌。我们是茫茫世界中的沧海一粟。就让我们一起呼吸微风的气息，在其中寻找我们灵魂的根。
我拉上了窗帘，眼前似乎更开阔了，心灵更透亮了。一切都过去了，屋外，树叶沙沙作响，像是在为我喝彩。
Late summer
poetic
One has
the leisure of July for perceiving all the differences of the green
of leaves. It is no longer a difference in degrees of maturity, for
all the trees have darkened to their final tone, and stand in their
differences of character and not of mere date. Almost all the green
is grave, not sad and not dull. It has a darkened and a daily
color, in majestic but not obvious harmony with dark grey skies,
and might look, to inconstant eyes, as prosaic after spring as
eleven o'clock looks after the dawn.
Gravity
is the world-not solemnity as towards evening, nor menace as at
night. The daylight trees of July are signs of common beauty,
common freshness, and a mystery familiar and abiding as night and
day. In childhood we all have a more exalted sense of dawn and
summer sunrise than we ever fully retain or quite recover; and also
a far higher sensibility for April and April evenings-a heartache
for them, which in riper years is gradually and irretrievably
consoled.
The
poetry of mere day and of late summer becomes perceptive to mature
eyes that have long ceased to be sated, have taken leave of
weariness, and cannot now find anything in nature too familiar;
eyes which have, indeed,lost sight of the further awe of midsummer
day break, and no longer see so much of the past in April twilight
as they saw when they had no past; but which look freshly at the
dailiness of green summer, of early afternoon, of every sky of any
form that comes to pass, and of the darkened
elms.
I've
opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I
sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud
above the neighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a
while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds
follow, big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness.
Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading
and drooping.
The
trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with
swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted,
somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which
sometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds, too, of green
leaves-clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and
dissipate like their airborne
cousins.
And
what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations?
Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I
occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of
thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north
when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of
compassion?
If
clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well
advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking
us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we
imagine?
Drift,
let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us
breathe the breeze and find there in our roots in the
spirit.
I
close the curtain now, feeling broader, fresher. The act is over.
Applause is sweeping through the
trees.
核酸有感天天下楼做核酸
天天核酸成习惯
习惯核酸成自然
既然自然不心烦
一次医院俺被弹
今个学习又弹三
电话打到居委会
领导来家手机看
态度和爱实感动
鼓捣半天也不粘
让俺三天过后看
天天核酸咋被弹
自由疫情没出门
天天核酸还被弹
目前看来没办法
再来三天等等看
人过七旬没脾气
再等三天就三天
两次出门老伴陪
不弹老伴转弹俺
长相市容不影响
为啥看俺不顺眼
医院拿药也被弹
再等三天试试看
六弹八弹不急眼
急坏身体更完蛋
老人手机不让用
出门买菜都困难
无奈哟
(2022-06-13 00:35:25) 
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