Our place when we need a break? Why, nature, of course. In my instance, after a week of extensive writing projects, it’s no further than my garden. Soaked, peaceful, waiting for spring.

The Hellebores:

The last of the Hawthorne berries, ignored by the squirrels who grow fat on our birdseeds…

The cedars, crying

The roses, sending out a first leaf

And my ornamental fish growing a moss beard with all the rain…

Feeling better, already.

Here are the last lines of a Thomas Hardy poem, Proud Songster. You’ll hear them in the song cycle by Finzi which will conclude this week.

“But only particles of grain, and earth, and air, and rain.”