Post by goldenmyst on Nov 13, 2022 15:05:36 GMT -6
Samantha in Tundraland
Jim can no more circumscribe the reflection of forever in her eyes than circumnavigate the infinite genome on which they sail.
Her eyes have the blue fire of a planet made habitable which beckons across the millennia with warm oceans and aqua skies. They turn his heat driven tears into the laughter of birds singing in the wind.
From the observation deck, the wheat fields ripple like those from the fertile crescent when Sumer flourished before the Tigris and Euphrates became dry riverbeds. The gentle cycling of the grain is a hypnotic pendant rendering the couple susceptible to subliminal seduction.
Jim says, “Samantha, please put this into the twentieth-century southern American patois you studied.”
“This here breadbasket of the north looks like the Kentucky bluegrass pasture that Preakness cut his teeth on. Them seed heads gonna spread the gospel of wheat a far piece to the Yukon like a traveling preacher man bringing the word to the heathens. Hallelujah pass them flap jacks.”
“And what goes with those cakes?”
“Why the finest pancake drippings made from corn syrup straight from momma’s garden where them ears grow nice and sweet.”
“Shucks I’d have never thought you knew what to do with an ear of corn. But it sure sounds like you do.”
“I’ve been shucking corn since I was knee high to a blackberry bush.”
“Well you sure know your stuff. So tell me what drink makes those cakes go down nice and smooth like blackberry jam?”
“Oh sure nuff honey. Nice cold sweet tea served with honey from Papa’s hive not none of that store bought stuff.”
“Tell me more about those tassels waving in the wind to us like a good neighbor.”
“Well now see here wheat is for the belly what God is fer the soul. I’ll take a hunerd acres of wheat over a man any day.”
“But don’t you need a man to work them acres?”
“Shoot, give me two yoked mules and I kin out plow a man any day of the week.”
“But who would compliment your wheat fritters come harvest time?”
“I ain’t need no man to tweak my ear. I can enjoy my cakes all by my lonesome. My heifer named Betsy gives me more love than a man can and instead of an ole dude drinking up all my milk Betsy fills the fridge so that I got some left over at the end of the week. Now that be a true friend.”
Jim can no more circumscribe the reflection of forever in her eyes than circumnavigate the infinite genome on which they sail.
Her eyes have the blue fire of a planet made habitable which beckons across the millennia with warm oceans and aqua skies. They turn his heat driven tears into the laughter of birds singing in the wind.
From the observation deck, the wheat fields ripple like those from the fertile crescent when Sumer flourished before the Tigris and Euphrates became dry riverbeds. The gentle cycling of the grain is a hypnotic pendant rendering the couple susceptible to subliminal seduction.
Jim says, “Samantha, please put this into the twentieth-century southern American patois you studied.”
“This here breadbasket of the north looks like the Kentucky bluegrass pasture that Preakness cut his teeth on. Them seed heads gonna spread the gospel of wheat a far piece to the Yukon like a traveling preacher man bringing the word to the heathens. Hallelujah pass them flap jacks.”
“And what goes with those cakes?”
“Why the finest pancake drippings made from corn syrup straight from momma’s garden where them ears grow nice and sweet.”
“Shucks I’d have never thought you knew what to do with an ear of corn. But it sure sounds like you do.”
“I’ve been shucking corn since I was knee high to a blackberry bush.”
“Well you sure know your stuff. So tell me what drink makes those cakes go down nice and smooth like blackberry jam?”
“Oh sure nuff honey. Nice cold sweet tea served with honey from Papa’s hive not none of that store bought stuff.”
“Tell me more about those tassels waving in the wind to us like a good neighbor.”
“Well now see here wheat is for the belly what God is fer the soul. I’ll take a hunerd acres of wheat over a man any day.”
“But don’t you need a man to work them acres?”
“Shoot, give me two yoked mules and I kin out plow a man any day of the week.”
“But who would compliment your wheat fritters come harvest time?”
“I ain’t need no man to tweak my ear. I can enjoy my cakes all by my lonesome. My heifer named Betsy gives me more love than a man can and instead of an ole dude drinking up all my milk Betsy fills the fridge so that I got some left over at the end of the week. Now that be a true friend.”
