but warm inside

There’s no use in hiding the joy from the bright of sun. I could wait for winter -but better if it never comes. We like the newness, the newness of all that has grown in our garden soaking for so long. I’m not sure where this river goes but we have no choice but to follow. If all that grows starts to fade, starts to falter, oh, let me inside. I will long to see all that waits to be known and all that will never be known.

It’s seven in the morning and I guess I’ll take care of my heart, and brain, and hair (while I wait).