Curly ferns relaxed as the sun whispered the promise of more days of warmth.
Criss-cross of twigs and pine needles carpeted the floor. Lichen decorated tree limbs in variegated green.
Dancers dressed in neon blue darted from leaf to leaf, each grabbing the stage for a solo.
I came in the morning and left in the afternoon refreshed. Light shifted higher into the sky and tipped towards the west.
Some rocks wore pelts of moss to cushion their rough edges.
My friend, an adventurer, came to witness. I watched as she documented the yellow flowers on the lily pads. In just a few weeks the pond will be almost completely covered with plants. Only the edges by the rocks will be clear. Change and renewal show me pictures of hope. Hope is a verb. It grows, morphs into unexpected outcomes, and leaves a trail of new promise. I need to be on that trail, always.
More posts on Fisher Pond. And here.
