Pool_2

>> Renewal <<

On the relaxed outlook of North Mountain, flowers, which were everywhere fostered and tended for their individual needs, reflected the prevailing tranquility, amity, fraternalism and brotherhood. Daisies carried the walls, violets the windows. Pansies ran amok in gentle assertion of the right of chaos to everything yet allowing order to the geranium. Tulips in row, begonias in file, forsythia, huddles of morning-glory, lily-of-the- valley, zinnia, and iris, plenty of iris, were tended as though they were children by children who delighted in foretelling which of them would pee the bed by buttercups held in divination beneath the chin. And what would life be without bleeding hearts, roses, and sweet Williams. Flowers. Healing herbs to the soul, you can lose yourself in their balm when your fabric is shredded. On North Mountain, silence commanded that unseen corridor which couples soul and efflorescence. But that quiet was of exclusion. Beyond the rise of the mountain, the flowers, and the singing children, bedlam prevailed. Those days of renewal were not in a time of quiet, not elsewhere. That phrase muttered in Sissy's driveway - was echoed into an answering machine. "Price, you are not done," an inhuman mechanical voice had forewarned. He didn't get it. His initial response was, "What the hell was that? Meaning what? Ass hole doesn't know my scope! Done with what?" as he purged his phone messages reflexly. His first clue was found in a McGuiness' poem, Promise Unkept, clutched by an unlucky son-in-law found disconnected in a luxurious out of the way apartment. "Sir, do you know anything about the meaning of this poem? Mr. Price? Sir? Some of these mmm things are yours, correct? Who is this woman in the photograph with