Only the remains of the super bloom are reminiscent this Easter morning from where I stand. The sun touching the tops of the blossoms which once refracted the light of magenta and oranges, now muted by the cottony pods containing the seeds to carry on. Spring has been quite a season, full of vibrancy, unexpected circumstance and boundless forgiveness.
Spring’s eve occurred the last of week of February this year. I had grown used to seeing my breath watching the sun rise in muted tones over the horizon. However, my inhalation resulting in no trace of steam as the season shifted. Cocoons dangling from hints of buds not there the month before. Spring and its promise of new life.
Something in my soul stirred deep watching the blossoms unfold this year. A realization. This is my place in the sand. This is the place I have chosen to lay the load I have carried. This is the place where I will root to see what grows. This is the place for creation. A place that blooms and dies; a place brutal, yet warm.
Butterflies play as the sun’s rays grow more intense. Another season’s metamorphosis.
I whistle for my dog, Mick. His tail wags. Our routine remains despite time’s change. We walk together in the sand. Our footsteps etched in desert sand. These footsteps will blow away. I am old enough to know that now. This knowing makes me thankful for these moments with Mick on this desert floor.
These are my thoughts on this day, the day of the resurrection. I feel the stirring within me rise.