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Wolf Moon slowly releases her silver spell, spills into this morning's cradle of whispering golden light, my mind unspooling last year’s worries, replacing them with crisp, clean pages of fresh slanted scrawl. Glance through window at the birch whose lacey corsets are frayed and parchment thin. January's warmth settles upon their delicate arms, skywardly raised. Imagine them moonlit, slender spirits coming undone, slipping outside their bark, disrobing, draping remnants upon crisp, cool breeze.
A Carolina wren lands upon a branch, nervously looks around, leery of red-tails and kestrels. Offers a tweet. It isn't a full chorus of finches, mocking, or bluebirds, but I appreciate his offering. My pen scratches surface of paper, words slowly yawning, stretching as I try them out. I want to learn calligraphy this year, perfect my quilting, join a birding group, explore waterfalls that grace this Blue Ridge, take up ballroom dancing...
From the corner of my eye, another flutter. It's a tufted titmouse offering a melodious "peter, peter, peter". I'm glad feeder is filled, snow has melted, sun is shining. But around the corner, a draping of winter-white looms, which I'll ignore; today's for raising one's face toward the sun. For rejuvenation.
Wolf Moon's silver spell
releases forest spirits,
unspools last year's fears
Also linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform".
