Tonight's moon brings about the pangs of spring. I remember several nights when we carried moonlight on our backs unto dawn. To be in love is not real. To be driven by elation and desire is madness. These and other statements corroborated by the passing light of March's first moon.
The snow is gone but will return in a bit. This is the way Michigan prepares for robins, fawns and fireflies. Yet in the greenhouse, we push and coax and foster life with our own bodies. Each day, we fill bays and hang baskets. We plant and pour dirt. Prune and heal. And each day, my back breaks and legs give way. To the other.
“Sometimes we must destroy a village to save it,” the woman said. I hate her less now for saying it, but I can not agree. Perhaps I have been saved, but in a moment's economy, that means nothing.
In Ohio, crocus and bees. We've not yet sprouted this far north. But my shoulders are stronger and almost ready for the earth work. The dog won't be cuddled or pet before breakfast. She simply cannot.
Beauty is calling; I feel her. Reading, writing, waiting. Wanting? Walking, remembering, and the ability to right one's self. I do miss the together feeling of 3 a.m., or was it 4? The moon passes through the oak and maple but gets caught in the backyard pines. By this paragraph, a new day. Light from the East recommends peace.
Peace be with you.