Scattered fuchsia, orange, red, and yellow lie on the ground like wasted beauty everywhere, but it’s not wasted after all. These are nature’s love notes—letters to each of us if we’ll read them—and now I know why a book holds leaves.
I think of evenings I’ve surrendered to a story; I’m caught inside a volume with actual pages. I turn and turn them because I need to know the ending. The whisper of the turning is what I hear today in the world of color resting at my feet. The wind is curious about the conclusion too and moves and moves the plot to its last page.
In this divine romance, I see the colorful path I now walk like a carpet rolled out for us—the forever invitation. Some tread on it, not seeing it, or maybe they think it’s a nuisance and something to claw into a pile for later disposal. It’s like a runner unfurled, though, leading us to the vows, the union—like a bride—and our walk ends at the altar. Or is that where it starts?
These thoughts rise under my feet today like the fuchsia, orange, red, and yellow. The wind picks up the edges now, fluttering the story, and I wonder where it’s going even though I know how it ends.
These are nature’s love notes.
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and their husbands, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr.