Under the Mistletoe
It rained last night. That cleansing sort of rain that chases the heavy hanging humidity out of the air.
Stillness. “Words, after speech, reach into the silence.” [Burnt Norton]
Missing the scent of evergreens (as I am apt to), I’ve lit a Mistletoe scented Yankee Candle on my bedside table. The flame flickers from the half-opened window behind it. I never tire of hearing the sound of tires on just-wet pavement in the background. Some air-conditioners hum from their window perches. A train signals its arrival not so far off.
These are simply beautiful things. They shine and twinkle with a slow burn when the grey clouds of my grieving doesn’t overshadow them. As is so oft the case, joy comes in the morning.