Sunday Morning in March

Having finished my coffee ritual, and having  fed the chickens,

I find myself standing here, barefoot, at the kitchen counter

Savoring a breakfast of a single apple and an orange.

The dogs peer intently, focused on my every move,

lest something, an apple core, a wayward crumb, fall to the floor.

Their interest in my breakfast is proportional

to the remainders of French toast ,liquid eggy mixture and syrup

they have already slurped up, delicious remnants of my husband’s meal.

He asks me to cut his hair, or what remains of it.

Clippers glide, leaving a pile of grey brown hairs

which collectively resemble a dead mouse deteriorating on the counter.

As a last finishing touch I carefully spread a thin layer of shaving cream over the shiny dome of his balding head,

and carefully remove the odd stray hair pointing skyward.

It is grey outside, not 40 degrees, and damp.

I shouldn’t be disappointed, it is not yet April,

a morning to do inside things.

Yet surprise! Yesterday afternoon as I headed home,

windows down, catching the warmth of welcome 70 degrees and full sun,

what met my ears?

The sound of the tiny tree frogs, the 'peepers',

A true sound of springtime arrived.

“Bidden or not bidden, God is present.”*

Mary Brandenburg

March 23, 2014

*A translation from the Latin, a phrase Carl Jung had carved into the lintel above the doorway of his summer cottage and later was  imprinted on his tombstone.