From the Journals of Most Beloved- Spring Journals
A mid-spring’s day, a perfect day, a day neither hot nor cold; exactly as I like it
Robin. 2 mourning doves. A small song sparrow. Courtship of the mourning doves. Choosing a nesting spot. The intentional delivery of a well-chosen site, one safe and out of harm’s way, one forever lost to who I am now.
I do not know if I will ever not feel this guilt. It ebbs, wanes, passes. I reconcile, cry, write, despair, and yet to this end, can do nothing to change what will always be my past. I love that there are teeny tiny little song birds up high on the walnut tree. I love that these walnut trees, pesky as they might be, stand noble and strong, hosts to birds, squirrels, and ugh, a hawk who hunts our birds.
I welcome spring, knowing never how many I can count—springs, sunny skies, bird songs, clickety-clackety drilling of our woodpeckers.
And so I sing a little song to myself, a melody that haunts no one save me this little song of myself:
Le printemps, le printemps C'est très joli le printemps If only, if only I could be someone else. A bird perhaps or mere feather caught on wings Without bow and arrow always piercing the wind Caught somewhere between flight's lift and life's fall If only, If only fate hadn't taken my heart
Most Affectionately Yours,