I caress the blooms of the lilac bush and breathe their sweet fragrant breath. Here in my garden where spring has risen from the melting heart of winter’s death. And when a gentle breeze kisses my face, I am simply blown away, to that magical place, where you wait for me, along the Fundy Bay.
Bare foot, I skip down a Granite paved road, flanked with ditches where morning glories grow, as I move through a mist of ocean brine, streaked with rainbows that melt in the morning sunshine and drip from the blooms of a every Sea Salt rose.
The house - its asphalt shingles, sparkling in many shades of grey - stands firmly on its hardwood pillars buried deep down in the clay, the same clay I mould into a tiny earthen vase, that joins the jars of pollywogs and dandelion garlands, all lined up on the old root- cellar doors, where I play.
And in a cloud of purple perfusion, again, I breathe the breath from the lilac bush that grows there, beside the brook, as those white lace curtains flutter out the kitchen window, and beat against the window frame - fanning the heat from those fresh baked apple pies - as another tear falls from my eye.
Then, from a distant pine, I hear the white throated sparrow singing, her melancholy tune and the clap of the screen door as I step into that room, a child again breathing the breath from a lilac bloom.
“Mom….. ……………. I’m home!”