Walking around my gardens in the misty morning hours is like a wandering prayer; a Praise the Lord here for the indigo just about to bloom and a Hail Mary there at the graceful grasses bowing in the breeze.
I wonder at the miracle of the growing grandeur and gasp in glee at the flight of a bumblebee, dusted in pollen, hoping that her friends will come and dance inside the wells of nectar upon the garden path.
I love to find the reflective beads of moisture on m’ lady’s mantle, or the august leaves of hostas, and is it not refreshing to find such powdery white snowballs on a warm May morning?
My morning walks are melodic carols with the joyful noise of cardinals, chanting to the heavens and the call and response of the a pair of orioles high atop the trees, whilst a hop, skip, and jump away one of God’s little creatures heads home to breakfast at Toad Hall.
So it goes today, here along the Cutoff; a wandering prayer of thanks for the riches on my garden path and for you as well, my friend, for you as well.