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The Crabapple Tree
Stretching my arms in sync with the sun as she spread her rays across the field.
Verdant blades of grass were slivers of gold in the light.
Everything was waking.
Everyone was asleep.
Embers smoked in the fire pit, last night a memory.
Sneakers soaked with dew, but the silence of the morning was a deafening symphony
birds singing in the trees rustled by the breeze,
playful leaves danced and spun on limbs.
Mist rising off the lake, reflecting the
pale blue sky,
the moon was fading,
sun racing to see his face before he left.
(She tried every morning but never could, fate fell short.)
Transparent minnows basked in the shallow warming water.
I was engulfed in the transition from sleep to wake, night to day, dawn to morning.
My lungs could not get enough clear air,
my tongue could not taste enough of this day,
my eyes could not blink in fear of missing a moment,
my hands could not grasp the adventures ahead,
my heart could not be more full.
The crab apple tree was not holding its breath.