Oh the sky is so grey and wet today.
The grass is soggy and the tree bark, drenched as black as coal.
The pale yellow horse stands in the meadow, draped in a purple cape and that too is soaked.
There is no escaping the gloomy outdoors.
Moreover, there is no escaping the fact that
I can't seem to find anything I want to do.
I babbled on-line using my Italian instruction program for a while.
And I considered cleaning out my closet. Not yet.
When I think about painting, I hesitate.
I hate that hesitation.
But there is this:
this poem, this laying one word down after another all the while reaching inside excavating around your heart that feels so heavy today to dig away, the same way you did yesterday when you were planting tulip bulbs. It was reassuring, that feeling of the wooden handle solid in both my hands and my foot on the metal shovel, digging down, lifting soil rocks roots and then
dropping the sleek little tulip bulbs -- some with papery skins -- pointy side up into the holes. Then covering them up and crossing my fingers, hoping for flowers next April and May.
When the weather clears, I will plant more bulbs.
Meanwhile, there is this:
writing these lines has brought me to a calm place, where I can just sit here and face outdoors,
watch the horses graze and the birds diving back and forth in the sky.
I thank God for words. For their power to communicate from one mind to another.
For their power to soothe the aching soul, showing you that just sitting, just breathing
For their ability to transform a sad day, adding moments of peace
that would otherwise have been missed.