The story

I have a book

With many pages

And many stories

bound to tell.

If the mood is right

I will read these words

Without regret,

only tenderness.

In this book of many pages

There are leaves pressed between.

Dividing chapters and events.

A birth.

A death.

A change of address.

In this book of many pages

There are blank pages too.

Without text or image.

Unsaid words.

Places I’ve yet to go.

Colors I’ve not seen.

I'm so careful not to break these fragile flowers.

Which remain tucked away

Aging day by day.

Slowly fading back into

The yellowed pages

where they were born.

And just as ashes bring forth the springtime,

so the story goes.

Memories remain on this shelf.

Between the leaves,

in my book of many pages.

week 48.

Sometimes the spring just seem too far away. I need something to remind me it's really on it's way. At times like these, I like to imagine a different life. I dream of a life where I can finally achieve all my heart has yearns for. But the truth is there is no better life waiting on the other side. We have what we have, right here in front of us. There will always be parts unfinished, relationships undefined, feelings that need time to heal. All of it is a work in progress. We have good years, we have bad ones, just like crops and plantings. At the end of winter I like to open my old books and look at the dried flowers and leaves. I like to see how they fared, maybe just to remind myself that the story goes on.