A pleasant warmth brushes my face as I inhale the morning air.
“Winter has at last fallen asleep”, tucked beneath the black dirt of the garden bed.
“Tread lightly,” it cautions.
Hope, peeking through the soil as a timid flower, is unsure of the climate.
Thunder clouds gather like opposing views bringing with it…
…winds of threat and cloudy accusations.
…Meant to harm, yet providing something needed…
some run off rejected
a torrential flood of judgment.
deep, bringing with it gentle correction.
The solar sentinel ever present though not seen,
sends out rays of help
chasing the clouds of accusations away
like a faithful friend.
A second look and hope has emerged safe and at attention
in response to the steady cadence call of the sentinel in the Sky.
Gone are the threats.
Spring at last.
The garden has learned to embrace only words which nourish the soil and the soul,
thus filling the air with a sweet fragrance of