We looked forward to seeing forsythia again, remembering from our childhood the first bright and cheerful flowering of the year. Still, John and I were not prepared for the explosion of yellow that popped out next to our new garage the other day on a giant bush that's twice my size, nor for its impact on our already overflowing hearts. What a wonderful sign that spring is on its way! And more: a great lesson in the nature of rebirth.
Homecoming
Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From my new porch and with a bottle of wine, my sister and I watched the last of yesterday's golden light bathe the meadow and the trees as if it was a performance only meant for us. Across the lane and over the fence, the rambling old house once manor to our 'carriage house' and my sister's 'barn,' glowed, too.
We are steeped in history here - European history, at least - much older than the places I have spent most of my adult life. You see it everywhere - in the houses, the barns, the stone walls along country roads. Much older, too, is my family connection to this place, from my childhood home just a mile across the valley, to early settlers, camping on the banks of the Schuylkill River. The responsibility of history feels weighty, the sense of family and a return to 'home' feels light.
Not Yet
My friends post photographs of
Golden hills and crimson valleys -
The last bright sparks of another year gone by.
Winter coming - but not yet.
Here, the angle of the sun
Foreshadows darker days and rain -
Not color really, but promise of rebirth.
Winter coming - but not yet.
So many stories reach me now
Of distant frail and aging friends -
Whispered ends to bright and brilliant lives well spent.
My turn coming - but not yet.