Sometimes all that matters

is the silver grass in the morning sun

the last rose of autumn that stays warm in the bud

the changing face of a leaf as it weathers life

a water pool that collects in the palm of a stone

the sky that waits patiently outside the window. 

Maybe all that ever matters is that we notice it.

In memory of the beautiful Sandra Carpenter.

Everything in its time. 

The joy and exhaustion of running after the first steps to stop them from stumbling into danger.

The gut-churning days of watching the self-same struggles tinted by a new time, which turns them into different struggles altogether.

The bridling of hope and anticipation so as not to overrun the emergence of a whole person's own path. 

The handling of parting with a smile of confidence while the heart aches inside. 

On my return, the dog waits on the terrace, the same but not the same. "Home is where you are," she says with attentive eyebrows.

Everything in its time.

On watching one's children spread their wings.