Sunshine dapples, shifting ever so slightly from watery to wan, from gentle to beaming, from soft to warm. Soon.
My daughter laughs with friends, giddy with excitement about the last day of school, murmuring plans for the summer. Soon.
My son digs fresh soil with me, relishing the turn of the earth’s axis, slow and steady, poking holes for the beans. Soon.
My husband commences with his students, offering wisdom for the journey ahead, sharing memories from the year. Soon.
I inhale patience along with heady purple perfume, reveling in the glory of the last while eagerly anticipating the first. Soon.
The sun, as if she herself had finished a luxurious stretch and shaken her head like a dog out of water, realizes: It’s time.
The morning, as a divine gift to humanity, hums. It’s as if creation knows this moment, realizes this sacred reality: winter’s bleak is banished, spring’s promise is unfolded, all in the red jewel before me. In a field, in a squat, I give thanks: for the red, the essence of ripe. For the juicy, for the sweet. For the promise and the taste. For the miracle and the ordinary.