There is a fire in the woodstove, and I love it. I love that it is May, and cold outside. I love the colors of the Earth in this unexpectedly coolness. The drape of the she-cloud dipping low and rubbing her body onto leaves and skin. The hushed room she makes of the landscape. There is no sky today, no soaring peaks, no stars tonight. Only this room of cloud and mist and greening forest. I walk in it, sweatered and damp-footed, breathing cloud.
We are tearing off our porch. It is old and rotted and we are replacing it with a sunroom. The children cluster around. The big ones help by pulling nails out of old boards and roofing tin. The little ones sit on the perimeter, cheering at opportune moments. I’ve gathered all our windchimes. They must be moved. I walk down to the garden and hang them from the wild cherry tree. She overlooks the garden and now she is filling the air with her fragrance. Her spires of cherry flowers are a universe of pollen stars, a celebration of cherry wombs.
The breeze nibbles with gentle cold. The chimes shimmer and hum. Underneath the tree are all my herbs and vegetables and flowers yet to be planted. Little friends. Up at the house I hear the cheering of children with the thunder of old things falling. And then the quiet, the deep pregnant quiet of cloud.