Day opens up like a curtain pulled slowly away from the window to allow the light to fall, dim at first until it causes me to cast my eyes downward in retreat with the unyielding glare of abrupt daylight. What's this? Buds on trees, each branch a separate promise. Each separate branch a gift that gathers at the root to spread out in an amalgamation that defies direction.
The day becomes a melody of sorts. Lyrics flow in and out and gather into harmony without effort. Clear day. Hazy blue with white fluff and a deep apricot shade that waits patiently in the wings for the inevitable sunset.
I take in the day with gratitude and gather it at my own pace.
Feed the dogs. Sons feed themselves. Coffee pot with bubbles and a swirl of milk in a china cup. Fleece dressing gown and old socks with bobbles of wool that bunch on the soles. Cleanse skin, wipe cotton buds of cream from the dermis. Smile. Floss. Wave goodbye. Kiss. Warm skin skims mine.
The day grows into an aria, an elaborate stitch with intricate notes that rise and fall and sweetly gather momentum. Everything is possible. There is no glitch to moving when one believes that the path has to be clear, will be cleared. Everything is possible when all that one perceives to be difficult is welcomed and accepted.
Talk. Talk to strangers. Connect. Move on. The harmony grows. Allow for difference and do not discriminate. Meet a woman in the supermarket. Her strife is obvious. Allow for that too. Greet all who cross your path with a light tune. Make allowances. Sing the aria. Let the notes flow. Soar up and over the gloom and dip down now and then to remind yourself of those less fortunate. Dip your toes in silken thoughts and caress your mind with only good things and don't ever forget the notes that carry you along.
I sing now. I sing as I sit here with these words. Sing. Sing. Song. Sing. I am as light as featherdown and all those branches on the tree speak of the days to come and not the days gone and the best part is that I can see each branch. Each branch says something separate and each branch sends those words down to the roots and the roots send the message out, the one message that allowed the tree to grow, the one message that allows me to keep on going despite the greenfly or the sinister ivy that sometimes tries to strangle, to suffocate the direction, to kill the tune.