Back to my spot on the lake which this morning is blanketed in a velvet coat of pollen. It's almost eight and the sun's sting of heat on my neck is late and the bullfrogs don't yet sing. There is a thin smear of clouds across the sky as the sun tries to burn her way through for those who wait and would sing. As I sit here, they begin. Their voices ripple across the water's placid surface while the gentle breeze passes high in the tree tops. Even the leaves rustle with voice of morning. There is no gray to this day except that which lies within. Yet this will pass. It is why I was given this gift of place and time. It is the place for my grief to pass through--finish its work. I need for it to pass through.
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