A peach tree grows in my childhood. Her leaves, like a thousand green tongues, swallow me. Smooth silvery bark ripples like skin over her limbs. Her branches perfectly spaced so that my little girl legs step on one and then another. I settle into my spot. Thick strong arms reach around me. I am held.
Spring officially begins in twelve days, according to the sign my snow woman holds. Her countdown is one way I mark its arrival. Crocuses at the edge of my garden are another. Purple and yellow drops of color are refreshing in the midst of a black and white Midwestern winter. Dainty and determined these bright
To feel at ease in a hammock is simple. The lake is lapping against the shore. My Journal at hand. Birds are singing. A ropey cocoon enfolds me. Hammock retreats are few and far between for most of us. We are busy. We are always on our way to somewhere as pressing “to do” lists
Many of our Midwestern spring days were twenty degrees hotter than usual. Magnolias that held their buds through the cold winter, couldn’t resist bursting open like pink popcorn. The climbing Hydrangea was already thick and green on the garden fence when the other flowers began to blossom. Daffodils and tulips that waited for months in the frozen earth also appeared earlier than other years.
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