03/04/2026
Ostara Saturday morning
sits gently on the edge of the day,
not asking for much.
I'm on the veranda,
fingers curled around a warm cup,
coffee breathing quiet steam into cool air
that still remembers the night.
The wind has woken early,
restless, curious,
moving through everything like it has somewhere to be,
nudging leaves,
tugging at my hair,
whispering through the herbs lined up
like a small, patient audience.
Rosemary, mint, something softer, they lean and sway,
as if agreeing with each other
about the weather.
Across the way,
the cows stand in their paddock,
slow and steady as old thoughts.
One lifts its head,
considers the morning,
then returns to grazing
like nothing in the world has ever been urgent.
My journal rests open,
page catching the light,
pen moving in small, deliberate marks,
a moment pressed into paper
before it drifts away.
And the cat....
wild hearted little thing,
is convinced the wind is alive.
Pouncing at invisible prey,
leaping sideways,
tail puffed with purpose,
chasing leaves that refuse to be caught.
I smile without trying.
The air is cool enough
to make me tuck in a little closer to myself,
but not enough to send me inside.
Not yet.
This is a morning that doesn’t rush.
It lingers,
in the curl of steam,
in the scratch of pen on paper,
in the quiet company of animals
who don’t need anything from me.
And for a while,
that is everything. 🌿☕
