Morning Glory
For twenty-four hours, an unseasonal rain had fallen.
The earth was drunk with it, and the air pulsated with life. In the park we go to walk in every morning, the boles of the trees that I touched whispered ancient secrets to me.
It was a quarter to six in the morning when we reached the park. I could smell the roots of trees, growing and throbbing with the life in them. And every root smelt different. The moon stayed with me all through my walk, impatiently brushing away the clouds that sought to cover her up.
Faint, very faint rustlings in the undergrowth, informed me that life thrived there, too, in every form. Little eddies of playful breeze blew among the fallen leaves, like riffs: if I were to put out my tongue, I knew I would be able to taste every little eddy.
It felt so joyful to be alive, in every sense of the word, that I lifted up my face to the moon, my moon, Diana, the huntress, and breathed a silent prayer of gratitude for everything and everyone in my life.
Even for those who have left my life forever, for whatever reason. But especially for those who have walked into my life mysteriously and inexplicably, who are so so much a part of it, that I can’t imagine life without their presence.
Thank you.
