I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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Shoveling a path of newly fallen snow from the fence gate to the bird feeders, I scrape the edges of the lawn and uncover leaves forgotten and not raked in late autumn. Soft and wet, they are the color of chestnut mares caught in rain or the old leather pouches used to carry mail.
Hidden but not forgotten. They are like old friends I haven’t called or written for a year. The ones I think about each day then lose in the busyness of this world. What I have not done. What I have set aside. A promise that flutters to the edge of the day then is veiled in white intention, like trees not seen across a field when fog settles in early morning, or the body of Christ wrapped in linen and placed in the new tomb at dusk.