Meadowlarks are singing.
Morning sunshine makes everything golden.
There is a faint hint of green whispering its presence from the ground.
Mama cows look with suspicion upon me walking
even though I'm on the other side of the creek and the fence.
My heart swells.
Oh. My. Heart.
It is full. It aches with fullness.
Spring.
Tomorrow is the first day on the calendar.
But there are no hard lines to seasons.
They blur together as one fades into the next.
The sounds of the birds
at each season change
create a longing in my heart.
I wrote of it after hearing the first meadowlarks' songs
earlier this week.
Meadowlarks
I hear you
Even though I do not see you yet
You stir in me
a longing
for innocence
for fascination
for belief in wonderful magical things
for deep unfailing love
for sunshine warming the cold corners of my heart
for eight years old.
Surely
you sing of heavenly lands
You sing of the place
my soul longs for
You sing
of
coming home
Gather my pieces all together here, Lord,
in
the song
of the
meadowlarks.
