I mourn the loss of winter still amongst us, snow cones still hanging on evergreens like Tibetan monks paying homage in silent meditation; snowflakes falling in love one more time, weightless without regard to where they fall. These cold silvery days make me long for the smell of hay; farmers tilling soil and little birds on the look-out for a better feathering neighborhood. It is a feeling I’ve come through something heavy and survived. Yet, even when spring arrives there is a part of me that can’t let go of chilly moonlit nights and vagrant stars streaking across the galaxy. I’m hopeless. © 2020 Jennifer Brookins
Lowness of high grass bows to earth’s surface in remembrance of better times when the great storm grabbed lightening by the waist, and danced with her the night away before the rising sun made his presence known. How shall I paint this day? Spring lifts her skirt as winter chills act as stewards in my garden.
© Jennifer Brookins