Spring Journal: The Joke
The groundhogs don’t know the stream floods.
They just dig. Sip. Rest. Begin again.
This piece is about watching them work—
And realizing we do the same.
We build our lives beside a stream that will rise and sweep it all away.
But in that certainty, there’s freedom. In that impermanence, a strange lightness.
What if falling… is just another word for flight?
Spring Journal: Two, yet not two
The valley awakens in purple fire.
Snow crocuses rise from frost-heaved ground—tiny, defiant, luminous.
This reflection is about early blooms, a single honeybee, and the deep magic that binds them.
Two, yet not two. Flower and bee. Light and earth. You and the world.
Spring begins here.
Spring Journal: Betrayal
We thought spring had arrived.
But last night, snow returned—quietly rewriting everything in white.
This piece is about late snow, broken expectations, and the sorrow of things not going to plan.
But also about what happens when we release the map, and simply notice the cardinal in the laurel.
Spring Journal: Mud
Spring doesn’t arrive with fanfare.
It seeps in slowly—through thawing trails, frost-cracked soil, and the patient churn of mud.
This reflection is about frost seeding, trail-building, and the quiet power of letting the mess make way for something new.
Creation begins with dissolution. Mud first, then bloom.