A Candle meets the Sun

Candle flame blowing with the fan in a day of bright sun. Other seasons sleep, I wonder if they look on with a sense of intimidation? They have retired into a wilderness of their own, they are passed, but ultimately not of the past. Movement decreases and hearts are still and absorbing. A Chinese girl with a parasol, speaks to me pleasantly, yet not saying a word, nor even casting a look. I smile yet, to her fleeting presence, and when she is gone, she is not gone, she remains as a memory of the glory of the day. And the day, and its glory breathes love and it instills a beautiful spirit, there is thunder in the warmth, in the feeling projected. And the world of art is tantalised, it leans into the day, into its comfort, into its kindness and its love. And it seems the beauty of the day is an expression from love itself, and it seeks to touch the world of its subjects, it doesn't discriminate, it is free in its giving, and it dedicates itself to all and everyone.