One Green Day

Green spreads around me in rippling waves. The trees are fully leafed, singing emerald songs to the sky-blue sky. The morning air has warmed under the bountiful hand of the sun until by late afternoon it shimmers. I set off across the fields. Sweet smelling bedstraw is suddenly thick underfoot and I kneel to drink in its heady scent.

I take off my shoes and wiggle my bare toes in the meadow grass. There is no one to see me so I throw my arms wide and twirl until I am dizzy—earth and sky and earth and sky and earth and sky—before I must stop or fall.

I stretch out in the soft grass and think that green smells like fresh air and sunshine and newly turned earth. I look up into the sky and let my eyes look beyond the blue, beyond the known, into the vast emptiness that is not really empty but inhabited by the unknown, and I fall in love with it all—the sky, the earth, the fields, the woods, the flowers—all over again, just the way I did when I first discovered the world as a small child.