Musings

My first conscious breath of the day seems an effort. I must rise and do it all over again. My cheek is cold on the window pane as I watch the mist rise over the pond. The geese are announcing their flight path. A few more tomorrows and I will be a winter woman. The sun barely rising over my horizons. My memories slip through my fingers like quicksilver. I touched his hand, and perhaps his heart, for a moment. That warmth has faded and will not sustain my soul for long. The wood mouse hurries across the yard and hides under a stack of old lumber. It was meant for a spring arbor, but I know flowers will never bloom there.