Morning found me exploring
around the old chapel again.
The walls, at least, started in the right spots,
though broken plaster had long since yielded
to insistent vines and wings claiming shelter.
Finding my favorite boulder,
I sat, and stretched,
drinking the water I pulled
from the well earlier in my pilgrimage.
It held up to my memory:
sweet and restorative after the journey made,
fortifying the spirit for what lay further ahead.
The sun dappled boulder was a more congenial spot
to enjoy my libations,
than the hard backed pews,
softened somewhat by the spread of moss.
The water finished, I went around back,
to find the spot I enjoyed hiding in
when I was small.
A sea of violets greeted me,
more dazzling under the stream of sunlight,
than the cold glitter of the stained glass windows,
once whole in the crumbling walls,
My sketchbook came out.
I lost myself in translating petals and leaves
into lines and letters
until the results pleased me.
Only afterwards, I noticed
that although I’d outgrown my hiding spot,
I still had my sweet tooth.
I gathered the violets for candying later.
They would delight my children as well as myself.
Perhaps I would tell them the stories
I found along the way.
Song Choice: Pocket Full Of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield