#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Morning Meadow
Out of the woods, across the trestle through the meadow, across the street, and then I'm in the large field under the huge sky, sunny and alight with blossoms on all the young saplings and trees, white blossoms, so sudden, so remarkable, so much to take in all at once on a spring morning, so long delayed.
I visited a dear old friend today at lunch and reconnected after many months. He uses a wheelchair where he must sit quite a lot. I ruffled his hair, I rubbed his shoulders, and stopped and he said, if you'd like to keep going, please do. And I was glad he asked, because he wanted more. I scratched his back and massaged his shoulders and neck and this made us both feel refreshed by touch. The skin of his back was delicate and white as an apple blossom. Touch is restorative, for the body, yes. Mostly, for the spirit. I've missed my friend, and now I don't.
Tonight I find this lovely poem about an apple tree:
“UNDER THE APPLE TREE
I came home, it was about
eight and remarkably
close for the time of the year,
the garden seat stood waiting
under the apple tree
I took my place and sat
watching how my neighbour
was still digging in his garden,
the night came out of the soil
a light growing bluer hung
in the apple tree
then slowly it once again became
too beautiful to be true, the day’s
alarms disappeared in the scent
of hay, toys again lay
in the grass and from far away in the house
came the laughter of children in the bath
to where I sat, to
under the apple tree
. . . .”
