Posted by Tania Kindersley.
I am tired. I am tired deep into the bone, in the places where sleep cannot reach. My eyelids are tired. My fingernails are tired.
I yearn for simplicity.
The sun shines down. The world turns. The blossom blossoms.
In it all, I find the younger niece. We sit for a moment in the sun and talk of life and death. And dogs, of course. She loves the dogs as much as I; they were once her puppies, before they came to live with me. She pulls their velvet ears and they gaze at her in plain adoration.
She is completely and utterly herself; young and funny and kind and true. I think: what a lovely gift, to be always your absolute self. I think: authenticity is not a high, singing word. It’s not something on which epic poems are made. But it is my word of the day. If I had the talent for the sonnet form, which I do not, it is the quality about which I should weave my sonnets.
The first mint:
And the young marjoram:
The light on the apple tree:
And the white lilac:
And the blue flowers:
And the unknown shrub, which now, thanks to a kind reader, I remember is a daphne:
The last of the grape hyacinths:
Lovely, lovely comments, again; so wise and kind. Thank you for them all. They mean a lot.