Freed from bulky winter socks, I sleep barefoot, wriggling my toes in cool flannel that caresses the arches of my feet.
I take my computer outside to write under the pine tree with my goofy doggy dog in tow. Together, we succumb to the ever distraction of a bird who calls to his friend in a distant tree. I can't help myself but wait for the answer.
When I change into my suit at the pool, I save a quarter on a locker because I can fit all my clothes into my backpack.
I rode my bike to the grocery store on Monday, and I didn't even have to talk myself into it.
My house turns luminous at 5pm because something about this season's tilt of the planet lets the late afternoon light come through the back window just so.
The market has fresh spinach and blue eggs and green onions, and the pale yellow of morning sunshine.
I am reminded that the van's passenger window won't go down. Darnit!
We open boxes of clothes, laughing with surprise at the familiar things we'd forgotten.
My composter, nearly frozen for months, begins to melt and "cook"--just when I thought it would overflow.
I cut the year's first fresh oregano.
Bright colored sleds, yet to be returned to their attic haunt, look suddenly garish and tacky on the carport, like haphazard relics of another era.
Coffee is too hot, soup too soupy, "comfy comfies" too comfy.
I cave and eat artichokes from California.
I can see into my freezer.
I quit worrying about why a teenager would insist a hoody can ward off the winter wind on a twenty degree day.
And when it's really quiet, I dare to think about the red of a fresh strawberry.
How about you?