Prose – The Day for Not Writing Poetry

I don’t know what made today so glorious. Was it sitting in the sunshine on my patio, the sky like an old aggie with the clouds making swirls around the iridescent blue? Was it the lime green of the new growth on the evergreens in contrast with forest green of last winter’s needles? It may have been. It may have been the chipmunk I watched retrieving nuts and berries from a favorite hiding place in the stone wall.

I hand tilled the small strap of garden which I have never used before and planted Sweet Williams seeds there that I had bought; four packs for a dollar. I planted Bleeding Heart seeds in the Portuguese pot, glazed green on the outside that sits on an iron stand; one of two that I bought years ago. The other pot is cobalt blue, and waiting for Nasturtium seeds. The early light hit my retinas just right, feeding me brilliance. Planting the seeds made me feel like I was about to give birth, and hopefully, the evidence will show it, in six to ten days with small sprouts.

I brought my coffee and journal out to the small wrought iron table and chairs, and thought I would write a poem about the whale watch last Summer. But this morning in particular, I was full of the sense of living more than thinking, and it was my choice just to be human and feel, see, hear, smell, and love life. I didn’t want to write about it, in fact, in that state I couldn’t. It wasn’t a time for words.


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