The concrete is cool, and the air smells green, and the trees are dark, beautiful, and even in the harsh headlights, there are reflections of God's glory, as the head lights stream through the branches and the negative shines on the brick of the houses. And the crickets and frogs, and I see a speck of light, and it's a lightning bug, and I am amazed, because I went to sleep smiling when a boy gave me pink-dyed carnations, and you made this all. (Like mud pies and holidays at the sea... I am far too easily pleased). All the wisteria that I love, pretty purple on dark green, and the bougenvilla on the porch, and the sweet williams, and the strawberries, and their little white flowers, and poppies, the heavy blooms, too much for their stems, and the opened flowers, fragile and bright. And every star. I count forty seven, but it's overcast, there are things in my way. And this is what it means to be still before the lord, to smell, and wrap in my cover, listening to the music, crickets that sound like birds, cheeping quietly. And I can't help but stand up and dance. spinning, spinning, down the hill, out of control. And when I come back inside I see a little dog, and I am overwhelmed by your sense of fun, in this pesky little runt, and how much you love me, and the silky spot on his throat and little gray whiskers under his chin, and the way he licks away tears--things you made. And when I get to my room, divine romance is playing on my laptop. And I dance again.
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