The robin ahead on the trail dappled in sunlight looks to me like a gnome, and I pause, remembering the time a gnome came to me in a tent while my family slept, and I want to believe for just a moment that somewhere in this wicked world there’s still magic like that — still gnomes and fairies, still hope and things we can believe in — then just like that, the robin flies off deep into the woods of this last protected space, and I think it’s magic just the same.
Somewhere in the ebb (of the work day) and flow (of the springtime woods) a page turned and laid itself gently across the path like a vignette filter on this enchanting afternoon and there beneath my feet…
A single spotted wintergreen rises up from the ground…Spotted wintergreens are the flowers that grow from longing.
The sun has warmed the alcove of cedar, so I sit for a while to consider the flowers, the swan, the osprey, the character who calls to me from across the pond who? who?
He turns and stops, his head tilted towards the ground. He stands there for several seconds, staring at the spotted wintergreen…
Am I dreaming? Then he carefully pushes his hands into the soil next to it and a cardinal flower punches through the surface…Cardinal flowers grow from frustration.
Perhaps dreaming or remembering? Surely there is magic about, even the Owl agrees watching now from above, as I sigh and adjust and…
Kneel beside the cardinal flower and touch the Earth, a purple cone flower rises to greet me.…the perfect flower for apologies.
We add to our conversation, wildflowers taking over the dirt…and so much spotted wintergreen, longing everywhere…
We see each other. I think we always have.
How long did I sleep? I don’t recall. Time stood still there by the pond beneath the trees that whispered and sang and soothed us — the Owl and I — for a moment or hours or maybe perhaps a lifetime.
A new flower punctuates the end of our conversation – a single iris to say he loves me.
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