The fields are sown, and green sprouts stretch towards sunlight. Crosses mark trees to be cut down this year. A gentle-gray overtone of warmth pervades the sky. A few more twilight chords, and the May song of love and roses will begin.
I bow before the mystery of life filled with light and shadow, like a sunny forest, like a sparkling pond where nothing happens, with the overturned sky shivering in it, and a merman smoking his pipe.
Things are good the way they are. The gods live here, in the ordinary world, and the stories our grandchildren will retell are rooted here. The fields are sown, and the invisible work progresses underground.
A paradise garden where songs, games, and dances fill the time. A boundless womb of the possible, where whales and dragons, mermaids and monsters are performing their eternal play.
When stories are born into the world, they flare with glory, and one small deed becomes a miracle bigger than all things possible. And yet the everyday life is still the Mother of all I bow before.