This

Again, a hint of spring is back in the day in the morning, in this calm place.
It's a wetness, it's a mildness, it's a bird-singing wonder, it's an awareness of the buds of spring hiding tightly away in brown, a dream of them but still, one that will come true.

A quiet-stunning. A silent promise, even in dried sticks of branches.

This is another day. This is that one promised. Or if not promised, then hoped for. This is a day-after-a-night-of-dreams of being in a city, living in an apartment, finding beauty in squalor, an old wooden table, remnants of green paint upon it, the wood still sturdy, this will be my table, I will put a white cloth upon it. There will be lace here.

This is a planet of blue-green water which hides the world within it from us, hides this world outside it from it, creating mystery, fostering curiosity, holding more than we can know and we know that and we are amazed.

This is a planet of dark-brown earth from which springs the tiniest ferns and the trees so sky-stretching that within their branches are entire other worlds, again, hidden from our view, thus, mostly unknown.

This is a universe of vast-unknown-to-us and some of us ask what and why and some of us are content to take that as comfort as to our insignificance and some of us, well, both of those things at once.

This is a day of the smallest particle, as unknown perhaps as the largest galaxy, but suspected, perhaps, searched for.

This is the day of the cup of coffee, this is the day of the fingers on the keyboard, this is the day of the words in the head, this is the day of the fruit and the bean, this is the day of the steps down the road, this is the day of the wheels on the pavement, this is the day of the knowing and not-knowing, this is the day of the life of the woman who dreamed and who dreams and who spins out the words and thinks of the worlds and this is the day she is in.