Birds sang their morning songs from boughs and beams of portico, sky still navy-night above dawn-ochre warming.
From the strong, but brief, cold spell air sensed as spring again. Bells of nearby church tolled seven for the hour.
In morning time, to only self, he rested in waking’s aura.
Alone, but feeling close, he wrote.
_____
March 17th, did you plant your early greens? Is your garden worked at all?
I know it’s lore to plant potatoes on Saint Patrick’s, and I had whole intention to obey and abide by principle—but then it snowed.
I will wait until it’s warm. I think I’ll plant by the moon this year: April 2-9th is when the almanac says.
Horticulture and horoscopes—are you guided by the moon and stars? Do you follow as heavens sign, or abide and garden by intuition?
Whatever way, I hope it’s a special season and bears you bounties of many kinds.
The sun is rising—one day nearer to true-spring. I hope it’s thought, however near and true in its arrive, gifts to you a smile.
_____
Navy lightened into nearer of day and sunlit blue. Shade of the ochre warmed further into peach, glow of sun just beneath and out of sight as silhouettes of birds shone in flight before backdrop of the sky, songs quieted to flight and day’s begin.
In seat at table, song of his words came too to end, and he felt a different blue.