This Sunday is eight weeks since I received the early morning call that my brother had passed away.  

This morning, windows and doors are open, and the songs of birds are floating into my home, and into me.  I’m touched with the different notes, struck like a violin or drum. I’m rung like a windchime with the vibrations in their songs.

I’m with sound and feeling, pulled in as though the tide within is tenderized with knowing there’s so much more than I see.  The song goes on and on.

Iris that appeared one day in my yard and flowers regularly now


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