Season of dry grass upon the socks, then trailing over thresholds

Recently, I climbed one of my mountains in the spirit of camaraderie with self and world. The way was snowy, muddy, icy and baked dry, all these things on one path. I am sure there is a metaphor there if you’d care to pick up the thread.

As I walked, counting the weekly cycles since winter solstice, I thought to myself: we are more than half way back to summer, but spring sure feels a long ways off.

Funny, now, a few waves of  snowstorms later, I have spent every beautiful afternoon of the week in my yard. I have been on hands and knees in the front yard, clearing beds of damp pine needles and last year’s flowers, listening to the sweet stories of my young narrator and his toddling sidekick. Under it all, of course, already I find the crocus tips peaking up along with the effervescence of freshly uncovered mint leaves.

I am dipping into reveries of herb gardens, fountain shrines, tree wisdom and the birds are singing right along side of me. To know it’s all rising once again, we are blessed with the inevitable and unavoidable changing of the seasons.

Blessings on your weekend, friends!

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