Once the hydrangeas have decided, there is no turning back. They bloom just for you. Intentionally. Enough sweltering days strung one-after-another makes them crazy enough to believe.
And delusional. They let you walk ever-so-near. They don’t see you’ve a gardener’s shears behind your back. And your intention…to display them on your basement table.
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.
Hearts, free…exploding!
But wouldn’t it have been fine
This Someday, with you?
“It is full,” I sayIn hope, or pain
Or hope-filled pain
Or hope that the pain will go to hell
We walk forward
This body
