Sunlight illuminates every blade of grass, every flower petal, every creature that hovers above it. Light, radiating from the whites and any bright colors, being sucked into black cotton shirts. The Sun uses big objects to throw dark shadows across whatever may lay below.
Just the slightest breeze brings my mind from somewhere, travelling inside itself and back to the nature I’m sitting in. The shimmering trees hanging their branches over the shaded bushes and plants, the garden and compost pile on the other side of the roundabout driveway. There’s a willow behind me, just before the miniature hill that slopes downward to meet the grapevines waiting at the bottom. But what is it that pulled my mind so alertly here?
It’s the fluffy white seeds of a wishy flower, half blown off, tangled and lopsided, yet sticking to each other with intention. It shivers so fiercely that I’m certain they’ll blow away like their brothers drifting around waiting to become fathers, but still the fluffy white spores stay. Mother nature steps in, declares she isn’t playing a game with stubborn seedlings, and a harsh gust of wind collides with us all. The tall wishy flower and its clinging seedlings, the grass, brown crunchy leaves left over from fall, my human body, my hair which is now splayed across my face, even startles a bird singing nearby, shifts to shrill squawks. I know the seedlings are done for now, for sure.
But no,
they’re still hanging on,
sisters of grace.
- Brb. Peaches
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