And memories of southern beaches are like cerulean ocean fantasies, like the last vestiges of a dream you’re not certain is real.
It’s May, but though there have been hints of Spring, chill has yet to yield. Here I sit, listening to the patter of rain again and then the insistent chirping song of the mockingbird singing: “This too is beautiful; don’t overlook it for clichéd peace.”
The cardinal joins in as does the song sparrow and catbird.
The rain continues. My toes long to curl in July-heated sand. I long for the stress-clearing Atlantic waves, throbbing to shore. Yet voices tell me that there’s more: open your eyes, ears, heart to all that unfolds around you–the irises, the peonies, the clematis, the flocks of bird-migrants from the south. Even the rain’s rhythm relates a song. Life and beauty are all around you, even now. Feast in it.