After too long a nap I looked out the bedroom window to see butterflies fluttering in the garden. It’s nearly six o’clock and the sun hangs to my right in the afternoon sky. The rains of February have left us with an abundance of gnats. But having grown up along the sandhills of the Ogeechee River, I’m more than used to swatting them. I sit here facing the highway watching the last of the commuter’s head home. Frazzled from their day, they wonder what to fix of supper.
As for me I’m still trying to wake up. My head’s a bit cloudy like the sky above me. But as the sun sinks a little deeper, it pulls back it’s covers to say goodnight. Reminding me that Spring’s only a day away. C.J. shuffles down the street I assume heading to his mama’s house. He graduated with my oldest daughter in a class with so full of hope and potential. Now most of them are long gone except for the few that stayed. The sycamore trees and the fig bush are budding, meaning in a few weeks I’ll finally get some shade.
So I sit here with my friends the mockingbirds singing me an old hymn. There are a few hardy souls gathered over at the Baptist Church. Tucked safely inside, while the real service goes on outside. It won’t be long before I’ll have to go back inside myself. The last of the empty log trucks sing their diesel induced song, while the sand gnats continue to lit around my face. As the butterflies begin to fold their wings for the long goodnight.
As for me I’m still trying to wake up. My head’s a bit cloudy like the sky above me. But as the sun sinks a little deeper, it pulls back it’s covers to say goodnight. Reminding me that Spring’s only a day away. C.J. shuffles down the street I assume heading to his mama’s house. He graduated with my oldest daughter in a class with so full of hope and potential. Now most of them are long gone except for the few that stayed. The sycamore trees and the fig bush are budding, meaning in a few weeks I’ll finally get some shade.
So I sit here with my friends the mockingbirds singing me an old hymn. There are a few hardy souls gathered over at the Baptist Church. Tucked safely inside, while the real service goes on outside. It won’t be long before I’ll have to go back inside myself. The last of the empty log trucks sing their diesel induced song, while the sand gnats continue to lit around my face. As the butterflies begin to fold their wings for the long goodnight.
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