I Pick Up My Pen Again

A couple of hours before dawn and all is still. As I make myself a hot mug of lemon juice I can hear my dogs’ quiet breathing as they lay before the hearth with the fire gone out. The lemon tree is rapping at the window because the wind has lifted its arms and led it into a wild dance. I don’t like the strong wind because they bash my plants, topple my bins but this morning it caused my Spirit to dance. What I used to see as a nuisance was this morning the music of heaven as I remain still before God.

The sun peeks over the horizon revealing the silhouette of the tall Eucalyptus trees. I can see they are all dancing like my lemon tree. When the wind weaves in and out between them, their leaves assimilate the sound of ocean waves. I close my eyes and imagine the sea outside my front door.

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The sun creeps a little higher and now I see the ballroom in gold. My horses canter past the pond covered in blue rugs to keep them warm. They are dancing. Two kangaroos look up from eating grass. The wind ruffles their fur, coaxing them to dance. Then one kangaroo jumps in front of the other and the other jumps to the side and both hop facing one another in a smooth waltz.

I see the cross at my dog, Zoe’s grave and imagine she must be dancing in heaven. It’s a good day to pick up my rusty pen for the words haven’t really dried up.  The words were just waiting for the wind to come knocking so the door of the grave can be thrown open, and they can dance again.

Note: For more on how I returned to writing novels after a 10 year hiatus, read my About page

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