I’ve walked in this park for more than twenty years.  I remember when the playground was on the other side, when we fought to keep that chestnut tree and when my daughter taught the dog to climb that low bending apple tree.

A circle of maples surround the wading pool.  The grass is dotted with tiny English daisies rubbing their yellow eyes with their slowly unfolding white petals to the hazy morning sun.  Red spotted white roddies appear for me.  Dandelions yell from the edge of the green field, “Better you pick them than us–har har har!!”  Felled pine branches catch my their wood flowers land mines seeking roots.  Bluebell bunches near the soccer nets at rest.  Bleached wooden bleachers sit out on the side of the field, replaced by sturdy metal stands.

Times change and remain the same.  Still the questions–who am I?  What am I?  And what am I doing here?  I cycle back always to no answer that makes sense except to ask better questions.

What is next to play with?  Which dance shall I practice now?  Painting my toes?  Baking bread?  Take a shower.  Rest in Her Presence.  Write my letter to you.  A friend phones and poof–I am called to listen. 

Heaven has paved Her path beneath my feet that never leave the edge of my shadow, but are eternally guided by Her Sweet Soft Hand in mine.