Morning’s rise, she thought to farm again—of its peace, a serenity that lived in prelude to and sun’s arrive as light-spill through cover of the trees.
She thought of sunlight upon spring’s daffodils and their yellow shining back. She thought of birds that nested on the tops of shudders making farm home theirs as well, their songs in morning wake and the flutter of wings when taking into flight.
She missed and longed for it all again: the place, the peace, a slowing of life to more natural way that seemed to gift a greater fulfillment, slow and still and lasting of a moment rather than the race and rush in haste always onto and toward the next, never pausing for the present which is the only place life is made.
In house then, she waited for the sun and daylight’s dawn over homes around. She waited for bird songs that were still a peace, but not the same, as those of farm and trees and nests over shudders.
She drank her morning coffee and warmed to its mellow-smooth.
Holding after drink, she looked to an image hung on aged, lived wall—her grandmother, ever-present in kitchen place.
“What would she do?” she asked and wondered. “Would she stay in this life, or return to farm?”
She thought she wondered but really she knew. She would return to the farm.
Truth, she never left. Farm had always been her home, and whenever she returned, she felt her life and presence there—generationed spirit and essence in the place.
She thought of a garden as large and grand as she desired to grow. She thought on a simple life, a quiet life, crowded table in home cultivated with the one she loved.
She gazed again to her grandmother in frame and felt her spirit in it too.
Homecoming called. Spirit drew to farm and place, home of quiet peace where she in smile, like daffodils, shined in return to the morning sun.