Gone is the Frosting

I come out here every day. Write. Or read. Look up at the sky. Just let the visions wash over me. Today...

... today, the wood-winged bushes are this otherworldly, barely-lemon yellow. They are... a baby's breath, sweet, weightless. Or... a faded meringue spilled across the understory. Like air. Light. Lovely. Inspiring. The split maples have lost their red, their orange frostings, licked clean by the wind in a mere day. The forsythia are yet holding on to green, full leaves— denying, spurning winter's cool advances.

Why am I here? Lick me clean, great Wind of the universe. Sweeten my soul, Breath of a Babe once come among us. Let me not miss, as Eugene Peterson says, "this invasion of Life into my life..." (p.13, Whole Prayer) Run your fingers through my soul, until... gone is the faux, the illusions, the frosting.