Proposal accepted.
The night air curls around me, invites me to walk into my moon-fed garden. I am caressed by the sounds and scents - the flutter of the bunny near the wall, the drone of the mating doves out back. I slip off my sandals. My mind dances to the rhythm of night.
The promise of April's kind nights is the assurance that the heavy leather curtains of winter have raised once more.
Then when the veil of a Spring night lifts, dawn peers into the knottiest dreams, shedding its gentle light on the unknown needs of the coming day. "Awaken, Joy Comes With The Morning Star,." I hear in my rested mind. A certain joy rushes into the shadows that play hopscotch with the sun beams as I smooth out my bed linens. I dress quickly to drink up the morning's delicious moments. Approaching morning is like addressing a large blank canvass; my heart skips a beat at the prospect it will bring. It depends on me (and of course divine guidance) so I must mix my paints, make a plan, arrange my brushes, commit myself to the artistry that must come from my winsome soul. I close my eyes to stay prayerful of the new day. For me, prayers are like daydreams, ever flowing springs of surprising and alarming thoughts - with pictures, colorful, moving, exciting pictures.
So, in my daydream, I glimpse the rays of light falling across the shoulders of the Master Gardener as He tends to His world.
" See. . . over there . . . near the open gate, the narrow one with the iron filigree and honeysuckle . . . just to the right of the wisteria fountain." I walk across the damp grasses toward the Gardener and bend low to hear His words. "All is Well, All is Well, All is Well." I touch His wide shoulder. He knows I'm there but does not look up. He is teaching me in silence, in the movement of His strong hands. Imagination is a holy thing I think.
I sit quietly on the nearby knoll where I wait to be ushered onto the meadows of May, appearing..
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