tuesday morning, may 2, 2006

Chilly, gorgeous, and full of song. There is a small squirrel sitting on a limb at eye level about 8 feet from my head swearing at me for all he's worth. There is a bluebird sitting on the volleyball net, and melodies all around the yard. In the trees, the normal conversation and chatter of the day is melodic dialogue, operatic exchange of a hundred simultaneous conversations. I listen, hoping to borrow a line, a stanza that might lilt forth when I open my mouth, for most of the time my words sound like the dies irae.

The sun is peeping through the trees over my left shoulder, and a soft chilly breeze stirs as the sun warms the night air and dries the dampness. The ashes smell from last night's fire. The whole world seems easy, save me. I long to be permeated and dyed leaf-green and fresh morning-yellow. But I am deep blue as the cloudless sky against the rustling green leaves.

Float me high on wings of song birds. Show me the peaks piercing through the morning fog still lying in the low places. Hold me while we watch it burn away and dissipate and become a part of the clear blue sky.

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