My fingers dance over familiar keys, composing again. Four years of learning culminate in a song for all the days past.
Outside my window the air is thick and heavy. Fireflies blink, drunk off humidity. Mosquitoes hover bloodthirsty. Cicadas scream incessantly. The pulse of the seasons beats in my skull. I have to get it out.
Today, three months of Spring began and ended with a turning of the soil. Fertilization is over, and now we long for the Harvest. As we wait, perspiration forms from weeks of sowing. We are exhausted from loving. Good God, we’ve loved.
All the days past are pounding in my head. I sent my Love into the grave, and it’s been resurrected.
Just the other day the grass was too high to walk through so they cut it all down and swept it into tidy heaps. The wind picked up and lifted those piles into a chaos. When the dust settled, we realized it was no use to make order out of what is already dead. Come harvest our daily work will be more than enough. The rest will take care of itself.