Morning hangs damp and gray.
Like my spirits.
Rusted farm bell stands guard on weathered post, bolted with two eyes and a nose. It’s mostly silent these days, its original purpose faded into the past with disuse.
Awning ruffle ripples gently, and tree branches sway.
Cracked concrete apron has almost swallowed my children’s handprints.
The garage gutter bends low, the hoop long ago removed.
My kitchen table hosts a front-row seat to ghostly memories of basketball games, homemade carnival booths, hopscotch, bicycle weavings, kiddie pools, a parade of cars, a camper, squeals and laughter.
It’s mostly silent these days.
My husband pruned the shrub outside the window last fall. The one that held a nest every year where we could peek down at the eggs and babies. It used to reach to the window, but now just stubble.
He meant to cover the Rose Dog bush (planted in her memory) but didn’t, and I hope that it will bloom again.
In the meantime, yellow finches cascade from feeder to ground.
My forced forsythia is in full yellow bloom.
My yellow tulips nod joy.
I whip yellow French toast eggs, add a little milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a splash of vanilla.
And in the mostly silence, my thoughts turn from what once was to what could be.
And a yellow (almost) sun breaks through the clouds.
(Yes, that’s the late afternoon sun. Honest.)
Finding Joy in the Yellow,
Wilderness and desert will sing joyously, the badlands will celebrate and flower— Like the crocus in spring, bursting into blossom, a symphony of song and color. Mountain glories of Lebanon—a gift. Awesome Carmel, stunning Sharon—gifts. God’s resplendent glory, fully on display. God awesome, God majestic. ~Isaiah 35:1 (Message)
Spilling crumbs again with Emily.
And finding joy with Bonnie.