I sit here with the cold remains of morning coffee–the way I like it–and look around at what’s turning into afternoon. The intense spring blue of sky appliqued with clouds; the yellowing of the willows and red tipped maple grays threatening to burst open in the warming sun. New grass, young and green, brashly pushes through its dead winter thatch. Color calls in chirps of orange, red and the screeching blue of jays.
I am part of it; plaid flannel shirt absorbs the colors, reflects them back. I cannot convince nature, or myself, that it is the strength within my mind and not my farmer’s hands, my breathing as the wind that is the me that’s meant to be. Disappointed, I cannot fight its undeniability, I accept my place within the world and leave to dreams the words of summer leaves.