Yesterday morning I woke to two inches on the ground. It is green and flat. Not white and fluffy. Layered neck-deep to a grasshopper.
Typically, from this view on the porch I can see sidewalks, flower beds and turf sprawled across the yard. But no more. The usual scene has all but vanished beneath a blanket of leafy delight. The neighborhood children have begun to build nests in it. My belly still hurts a bit so I'll make no attempt to move it. People who drive past think it's an eyesore. I think it's magical.
Thank you, drifts of green stuff. You're something else.
Typically, from this view on the porch I can see sidewalks, flower beds and turf sprawled across the yard. But no more. The usual scene has all but vanished beneath a blanket of leafy delight. The neighborhood children have begun to build nests in it. My belly still hurts a bit so I'll make no attempt to move it. People who drive past think it's an eyesore. I think it's magical.
Thank you, drifts of green stuff. You're something else.
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