There are days when anything I put into writing sounds trite in the face of what is happening in our world. People are going to work, to shop, to school and never returning home. A mother, a son, a beloved pet, a chair at the table—they wait. Then, not.
Today.
Raindrops hanging from bare branches like tiny lights. Each holds a story in its reflection.
A crocus toppled under the weight of rain. Pale undergrowth blankets the field.
A sliver of sun touching glass on a windchime. A prism.
Wooded walk with a pup. She and I exchange glances. I pull down my hood. It’s me, I tell her. She knows. We walk to the next patch of grass growing at the base of an oak. A bluebird is startled. She just wants to play, I say to the bird.
Before this, I wake to coffee brought to my side of the bed. Like every morning.
Today. This. It’s more than enough.