How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into darkness
and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom:
as if what exits, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious.
~ "In Passing" by Lisel Mueller
Today is a young, tart strawberry. It's not quite ripe enough to be an ample morning but I've been up since 5:34 am; it feels as though it ought to be noon, at least.
I haven't been able to slip into my springtime aura. Mornings are too crisp and my icy fingertips still curl too tightly around a cosy forest green electric blanket. For as much as my body craves the sheet-less languid nights of summer, I will miss the ritual nesting & burrowing that comes with frost tinged sunsets. There is something undeniably soothing about being able to immerse oneself into the safe confines of a heated blanket and soft flannel sheets. That rapturous warmth after so much cold...like the embrace of a long lost lover or a dryer-fluffed towel draped over chilly shoulders. Yes, dear forest green blanket, you will be missed on hot July nights.
This nascent strawberry morning finds & fills me with wistful thoughts, secret longings, a third cup of strong, creamy coffee, and two leftover rolls (gently heated in the microwave). Oh, to be in love in cruel April. xo