From the window on the landing a view unfolds, lichen splattered tables bearing scars of saltwater westerlies that prevail the shortest days here. The ocean murmurs in the distance…always.
February the blank canvas of months awaits the artistry of nature’s hand, the real genius of life is to exist with awareness of what’s beneath every landscape we walk upon. We are merely tenants, caretakers and all ownership diminishes like chalk cliffs. We strive to be kings and that’s our downfall.
The roses of a summer past still cling to withered stems, no winter gale quite strong enough to break their bond. To sever ties too early is never in their design, for the rot sets in when the ice finds the freshest cut.
In spring the buds will form, new life perpetually calling, these blooms will fill vases in every room. Winter chill will be replaced by heady blousy lilacs that cascade on a warm and gentle breeze. I will not flounder here, through restoration not replacement happiness reverberates.