It is not good to
dwell too long in the realm of abstracts, divorced from the breath
and touch of real life.
It is springtime here. The sun shines, and uncountable numbers of buds and blossoms emerge from their winter slumber. Looking up into the sky I see an endless swathe of blue, interrupted only occasionally by the darker shadows of birds in flight. There remains a chill in the air, but it does not freeze the senses so much as awaken them to life.
In the garden here there is still a lot of old growth, blocking the light and choking the avenues through which fresh shoots may appear and seek to grow, yet I know that with careful, diligent, persistent work a space can be cleared for the green shoots of the new year.
It is springtime here. The sun shines, and uncountable numbers of buds and blossoms emerge from their winter slumber. Looking up into the sky I see an endless swathe of blue, interrupted only occasionally by the darker shadows of birds in flight. There remains a chill in the air, but it does not freeze the senses so much as awaken them to life.
In the garden here there is still a lot of old growth, blocking the light and choking the avenues through which fresh shoots may appear and seek to grow, yet I know that with careful, diligent, persistent work a space can be cleared for the green shoots of the new year.
