This day...this moment in time...
The sun has risen, filling the room with light. Spring is ready to make an entrance, but winter insists on staying a little longer. From the window, I can see the pussy willow's fuzzy buds bursting open, yet strong winds still bend the trees. It's silent in this cozy place, except for the creaky sounds of the iron stove as it expands. No, not silent. The guinea pigs nibble hay with their tiny teeth, waking for a new day. And birds call, though no windows are open. They announce they are ready for a new season. Not me.
My dear husband keeps us warm with the fire he starts at dawn each day. He is at work, finally doing what he loves best and what he was created to do--puttering and fixing. He is using the talents he's acquired over a lifetime. My daughters are still in their beds, soon to be moaning when I arouse them to get ready for school. I'm doing exactly what I should be doing in this season of life. I know it. Giving my girls a good education, protecting them as long as possible.
March--the transition month between the long winter and a new spring. Our family is also in a transition time. Our babies nearly grown, but not yet women. Fred and me--our lives mostly lived, but that place called "old age" still seems far off in the distance. We're healthy and strong.
(If we slow down, will it take longer to get there?)
Don't leave, month of March. We want to stay here and live in this moment. The sky is clear and blue and I don't see any storms on the horizon today. Not today anyway. I put another log on the fire to keep it burning a little longer.
The sun has risen, filling the room with light. Spring is ready to make an entrance, but winter insists on staying a little longer. From the window, I can see the pussy willow's fuzzy buds bursting open, yet strong winds still bend the trees. It's silent in this cozy place, except for the creaky sounds of the iron stove as it expands. No, not silent. The guinea pigs nibble hay with their tiny teeth, waking for a new day. And birds call, though no windows are open. They announce they are ready for a new season. Not me.
My dear husband keeps us warm with the fire he starts at dawn each day. He is at work, finally doing what he loves best and what he was created to do--puttering and fixing. He is using the talents he's acquired over a lifetime. My daughters are still in their beds, soon to be moaning when I arouse them to get ready for school. I'm doing exactly what I should be doing in this season of life. I know it. Giving my girls a good education, protecting them as long as possible.
March--the transition month between the long winter and a new spring. Our family is also in a transition time. Our babies nearly grown, but not yet women. Fred and me--our lives mostly lived, but that place called "old age" still seems far off in the distance. We're healthy and strong.
(If we slow down, will it take longer to get there?)
Don't leave, month of March. We want to stay here and live in this moment. The sky is clear and blue and I don't see any storms on the horizon today. Not today anyway. I put another log on the fire to keep it burning a little longer.
**************************
See? I captured one moment in time. I held it in my hands and examined it and saw its beauty and took pleasure in it. But now I have to set it down and move on. Time for school.
1 comment:
dang deborah! you've got mad skills. I really enjoyed that! "If we slow down will it take longer to get there?" brilliant!
Bubba
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