Everything

Boys pass by on bikes with fishing poles jutting out of their backpacks. Red buds dot all the nearly naked branches. I can almost hear their hymns. It's warm enough to work barefoot in the flower beds and I cannot help but gulp this elixir of change. Everything begins again – everything?

The pulsing wings of the Sandhill Crane startle my daydream. Nothing stirs on the pond, but further through the woods over the rise, a single file line of deer shuffle through October's leftover leaves. I used to think we'd never end and in certain ways, we don’t. Yet in the ways that change everything, we did end.

I am full of nothing these days. Maybe that is the point. I wake around 4 a.m., read, write and stretch. Go to work. Tend the family. Dream about mushrooms and vegetables and a circle of friends that understand it all. They are beginning to arrive – just like you said they would.

And yet.

Everything they share with me says we are never not constellated.