I hear the birds heralding the soft gray dawn.  Cold spring morning.  Snow in the passes.  Squaws and dark clouds that dump rain and move to stalk nearby neighborhoods.

Sounds of my dear companion in the next room.  Stretching of a cat who softly mews for my touch.  Clicking of the keys.

Morning has broken.  Like the first morning.  Memories of family run from my heart to my eyes tempting tears.  There and then was so different than here and now.  Why do memories ache?  Is it truly “good grief”?  Why is it hard to hold the dearness in my body when another person’s body is so long gone?  Is it truly a spiritual existence in a temporary human form?  How do I know that is true?

I guess it doesn’t matter.  My world is made up of my stories.  And I want it to be a good story, a fun story, a story that, well maybe I can weep whenever, but not right now.  Right now I want to pull a bright jacket of thanksgiving around me for the soft cozy home I have.  Here I intend to energize my form and create a day of treasure–a treasure chest of stories to tell at a later here and now.