it’s in the orange flesh of mango bleeding red around the pit, lying with husband on blanket beside fire talking late into night like we used to, in days of university and “one more song” we’d always say, because we couldn’t stop learning the other
it’s the way the sun slants sideways as if in tango with the road and the snow, melts soft into spring and the birds sing their way into nests and my red winter jacket seems too warm
it’s the first green of seedling poking brave soil-through and the plastic bag of turnip and carrots and potatoes left at door and the postcard from thailand of brown men cycling tourists through streets and a friend having learned to scuba dive and “oh, the richness of color beneath the sea”
and it’s the man in wrinkles and jacket pushing his wife in wheelchair down hospital hall saying “i’m alive” with the smile of someone spared to another who asks how he’s doing
it’s the hallowed space of anonymity: the peace that comes from being one with something. one with a moment, so perfect, it needs nothing else.
*please note, next week, there will be no imperfect prose on thursdays, as my husband and i will be traveling… the week after, it will return, however… peace to you, friends*
1. link up a post (old or new) that you feel is ‘broken’ or ‘imperfect’ or somehow redemptive
2. put the ‘imperfect prose’ button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read other’s offerings, and encourage them!
*original and prints of ‘Birds’ available here*