A flower isn't told when to bloom, but does so with grace, capturing the light through its vibrant colour and delicate fragility.
We take vacations and go on trips, move quickly as days pass by.
Each rock stacked, one atop the other, working as a team to produce something each individual one could not withstand.
There is courage in venturing out with the intention of returning home again.
A home on the waves and a creature all her own. She has carried me, doubts and all.
Looking like their own herd, I watch their dance, advancing into the deep blue sea for another day of catch and release, their small bows a kingdom unto themselves for all the day long.
The water shifts, coming and going — a loss that takes something with it as it goes. The passage of time has not been kind, smoothing away the edges, erasing the very substance of the stone structure.
Glory, majesty, symmetry. It's like the line that splits horizon from the lake allows the scenery to burst forth twice.
How often have I passed by a simple puddle without seeing the reflection it offers? The secrets it keeps, fleeting as the sun rises to take it to itself.
Weeds are only pests because we decided we didn't want to see them. But who else runs to greet spring and clings on despite questionable conditions? The wind has lost its edge, which feels like a gift of its own. Maybe I will be tolerant and accept this fellow eager greeter.
Slowing down to see the details and to hear the quieter voices. Something in the silence says, the winter will end as I promised it would. The smell of change is in the air, and as the earth softens there's a reminder that pleas don't go unheard. Fingers trail and feel the softness and the tender life.
They run ahead to spread the news: Spring is coming. Soon other flowers will follow, looking decadent compared to the colourless landscape that held a firm grip not long ago. Is there anything more hopeful than their cheery faces when the trees still stand bare?