I emptied my parka’s pockets today, removing three pair of gloves; the 30 below-zero pair, the fleece pair, and the brightly flowered garden gloves, along with the ubitquitous crumpled (but clean) tissues. At different times during the past week, sometimes in the same day, I’ve worn all three pair.
A half dozen daffodils are blooming along the front walk, amidst the leaves I raked from the bed a few days ago, which have since blown back. As I accept the inevitable, the reprise of my leaf-raking performance with three costume changes, I imagine a conversation between the daffodils and the leaves. “It’s going to be cold, again, tonight. Tuck us in, will ya’?”
“I’ll let you sleep in, until the weekend,” I interrupt, acutely aware I’m talking to myself, rather than to bunches of stems, leaves and blossoms, “then I’ll strip away the covers. Sleep well, my darlings.”