Returning home from weekend escape into the wilds, she gazed on world in roll and pass of driving through. Glint of the sun caught on stalks, pale and flaxen from harvest-fall, and the ground seemed richer, darker, in melt of the snow and moisture’s remain and sunlight of cloudless day.
She was ready to be home. She was ready, too, for spring.
She thought on her garden, of soil on her hands and the scent of humus freshly turned.
She daydreamed of morning glories and passion flowers vibrant in their blooms; their vines in reach, entwine of climb, or loose forward fall in line of steps—living carpet-green and white-borne blooms—in greet of sun and climbers of the steps.
She thought on wildflowers, the low hum of bees busy about open stamen-pollened hearts, yellow in their hairs as they hummed one flower to the next.
In rolling land, pastures tinged of green through close graze of winter-sustain.
World’s color was not restored, but there were hintings of return.
She was ready: ready for spring, for color and life to wake, for morning glories and passion flowers in live and take of flower and vine; for the birds and the bees, pollen scented scenes; for open, careless, and free: in Eden once again.