It is enough for me, the breeze today. To let it waft over me, and with it, bring a strength.
Beauty and curiosity, like a bleached-comb Cardinal, often ride on such air. This morning, though, wisdom arrived.
This morning, the wind asked for my resolve: A halt to crying over others’ big promises and small feet. The stop to the bruises I allow.
A decision that I am enough. The God who created me said so.
This weekend, a storm of understanding is predicted. An Eastern Bluebird cannot be far behind.
It's our backyard
We allow ourselves
As to keep a few toys strewn about
Of the dancing of sun and shadows
Upon the nearly too-long grass
That feels so silky
So blessedly silky
Against our ankles and feet
And the breeze….
The need to be not stricken
By the simplest song’s every low, strummed string
The imagined scent riding the gentlest breeze
The hop, hop, hopping of some creature’s feet
Where was that tall, small white farmhouse
In need of my repair
I imagine soon the two bedroom windows
Will be cracked open a slight bit
To let in the night’s song
To let out the day’s cares
Old orange mutt sleeping on the job
Won’t hear the creaky porch swing nudged by the breeze
But I will