Sunday morning writing prompt - what that you love most about life would you give as a gift to someone? Here's my gift to you:
I would give you dawn in vivid colors and in rainy gray so that you could give each new day its proper due. I would wrap sunsets in shades of scarlet and orange, and darkening evening skies that glimmer with starlight. I would give you cold November rains, colored lights gleaming against the snow in December, the warmth that grows in April and blooms in May, the chill that signals autumn, and brilliant scarlet leaves that tumble in the sweeping winds of change.
I would give you meadows full of daisies, the sweet scent of new mown grass, the contentedness of pastured cows. I would give you the red fox that leaps for ripening grapes, the possum that chortles to itself on its nightly ventures, the bear that sharpens its claws on a dead tree. And I would give you trees in every height and variety, those giants that sink their roots deep and hold their heads high.
I would give you the smallest stream that rushes downhill from a mountain spring, a river that tumbles over a dam, the ocean teeming with life that never ceases its restless, shoreward roll. I would give you pearly shells and starfish, harsh-voiced seagulls, ducks and cormorants and slouch-billed pelicans. I’d give you the scarlet cardinal whose voice drops liquid notes into the springtime air, and a small chickadee that dares to feed from the palm of your hand.
I would give you stones that sing about the earth in deep tones, and craggy mountains that offer visions of timelessness. I would give you distant blue hills and an adventuresome spirit that would, even if you never left your homeplace, encourage you to learn about faraway places and people and landscapes that would forever expand your narrow confines.
I would give you the fragrance of a spring wood violet, the delicate perfume of a rose, the piney scent of a forest path, the metallic taste of a snowflake melting on your tongue. I would give you the silence of a winter snow, a dawn symphony of summer birds, the song of the wind in the high treetops, the sound of wings.
But, these are not mine to give, so come, sit here with me, and let me picture for you with words all the wonders that I know.