Spring Prayer

Spring arrives at the cottage in shades of yellow.

I do not want spring to rush past me unnoticed so I stand on my doorstep at dawn, breathing in the still cold air, noting which trees are budding, which flowers are blooming. I watch the sun roll up over the horizon, painting the sky, the tree trunks, the rooftops, the lawn with a gold-tipped brush. The birds serenade the sunrise; even the rooster next door adds his voice.

Mid-morning finds me out of doors and on my knees. If prayer can be a living thing, then heaven must be besieged with gardeners' appreciation. Flowers are such beautiful things - ephemeral, delicate and yet so strong. I like knowing that my vegetables are grown from organic seeds and tended by my own hand. I don't mind weeding. It gives me a chance to be quiet and contemplative. And the reward is a tidy garden bed.

The days are never long enough to do all I have planned. Evening finds me watching as the sun sinks slowly behind the mountain, drawing its light with it until the sky darkens and the stars appear. In the swamp the spring peepers chorus and the larks call goodnight to one another. The blue heron that fishes at the edges of the pond groks as it flies homeward. Otherwise, it is very still, as if the air were holding its breath.

I like knowing that tomorrow (unless it rains) will be the same as today and for a few weeks yet spring will release its tiny miracles of unfolding leaves and petals.