Dawn has crept into morning. Impending spring is everywhere -- all around -- and I want to feel it, see it, breathe it, inhale it deep and absorb it. Let go of winter and dark, disturbing feelings of loss, hurt and betrayal. I want to feel the light, see the light, breathe the light and live. Birdsong fills the air every morning, frost has turned to heavy mist and dew, buds are everywhere and the beginning blossoms. The soil is calling and my gardening voice echoes in my mind's ear. Time has come to clean away the ravages of winter and start the spring preparations to the vegetable beds and flowery borders. I walk with a lighter step, with joy.
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pen poised
hesitates scratches anxiously on the page halts continues punctuates drafts a memory Clear skies, light breeze. Sun sending warning glow of faded peach onto the horizon. A few powder puff clouds dot the blue with soft. Signs of spring are everywhere. More birds, buds on the plants, thickening grass. But the dew is heavy and icy -- frost on the car window and crunchy on the hard soil. It'll be mud soon, wet with rain and melting. Winter is almost over and life will bloom again.
He complained the deer didn't come into their yard and I thought to ask why they didn't remove the fence, but let the words die away unspoken inside my head. This man, who had conquered mountains, pioneered engineering pathways, shaved rough precious stones into faceted brilliance, and turned trees into lovely bowls and vases was shrunken, was cowed by age -- the memories dim vision deep behind the cataracts and constantly weeping eyes.
It had rested on the calendar for two months waiting to serve itself up yesterday. Lunch with old friends. Longtime friends? Friends rediscovered? Old? Yes, all of us older. Spent three hours chatting and catching up. An overview of times past and updates on names of people barely recollected.
Outside, a man in dark glasses with a baseball cap hands out a political newspaper. Periodically, he holds the door for someone or comes in to straighten tables and chairs. I assume that's his ticket for getting warm without loitering since he's not a paying customer. A vagrant-looking woman -- disheveled clothes, uncombed hair, shopping bag of belongings -- bums a cigarette from the man in dark glasses and they exchange some words of knowing I can't hear. A black man in a florescent colored safety vest pushing a trash can, saunters up and they clap-tap hands in a good shake.
A lovely day with my computer. Lost in my own little world of words. Interesting observation, some known facts, some unknown facts....I write better in the morning when I first get up, before I have a chance to start thinking about things to do and deadlines, while the world is still asleep. Dawn is a very creative time for me.
The natural light of day had faded from the room and an eerie dusk settled on the furnishings providing dark pools of shadows around the floor. She sat next to the motionless shape on the floor and waited. Her stomach began to grumble. The room continued to darken into night. The shape made no movement. She poked at it.
The wind has strewn pink rose petals from the arbor across the paved path leading to the dying garden. They drift with each new breath to the surrounding borders of Irish moss and other low growing tangle. The wind chimes patter out a discordant yet comforting melody of random notes alerting me to the air movement.
Serfed the internet -- yes, serfed -- a poor, indentured slave to the limitless, scopeless, seductive offerings of the information god.
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AuthorHace Williams is a Seattle area author and journalist. Archives
December 2015
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