Just off Music Street, I meet the east each morning and cocoon in a quiet sensorial bliss.
This time of year brings on a bittersweetness reminiscent of an almost ripe summer peach.
The fruit clings to the branch, still yellow and hard, not yet willing to be eaten.
In this community season of launching children we hold our breaths.
We pretend it's June, though the long golden shadows tell us different.
We try to flip the hour glass.
We take pictures in our mind as we hold still between the ache and ecstasy.
Sleep eludes us as we count dorm items not yet purchased instead of sheep.
We hug our creatures hourly.
We wipe loose hairs out of their eyes.
We watch them sleep and listen to their soft noises.
We make them pancakes before they wake up.
Like a biscuit dipped in tea, we soak up their details into our cellular memory.
Our hearts mingle in the unknowns of new beginnings as we enjoy this doorstep linger.
We breathe along with the stirring crickets and humming robins.
This is how it works, we tell ourselves.
Time moves forward, not backwards.
Birds are meant to fly.
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