The world is so noisy with conflict, dispute, calamity. It’s all very real and very personal for so many, nothing to be made light of. But up here, from the surface of the moon, looking down on earth, all is still and quiet. The earth is a calm globe of water with floating gardens like one of Monet’s lovely ponds. It rolls like a dice across the black velvet of space, one side comes up stormy, another emerges calm, another dry and still, and yet another heavily populated with teeming throngs of busy people.
As oak leaves fall in the garden, the pumpkin vines stretch out over the brown earth, and as apples continue to swell in the orchard, the bear has once again returned, upturning things, peering out from between the big cedars, and the annual dragon-fly gatherings have begun on the front lawn. Serious matters stir in the dark, as deep waters surge from hidden springs, and yellowing leaves sink down towards the muddy depths. Time’s chisel shapes despite the cries of the unseasoned wood.
The Master craftsman smiles and hums to himself while he works. Time’s music is pleasing to him, for in his clay cellars casks of dark red wine age happily and he contemplates a feast in the orchards when spring returns to the land. With every stroke the outlines of the coming feast grow clearer.
