W is for Windmills
We have only lived here nine months, but it has been just over a year since this place became ours. This view of the southwest corner is a favorite. Watching the sun move south and north on that horizon like a pendulum reminds me of the earth’s tilt and gravity leans me into Him who flung the stars with mere Word. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt–” Dwellers, we, here, now, are, too. Winter winds whistle all around our snug house on the prairie. Snow drifts and shifts like sand. The world is gray above and below. The birds flock to our feeder merrily.
Solstice has passed, the light grows. Our roots deepen under the memories we pile like stones. New dreams are buried in the warm dark, patiently awaiting their spring.
In the fall I walked toward the line of trees near the lilacs and startled a buck up from the low brush. He stood and stared and we both wondered who would make the first move. There is a wild grace about deer. Wildness staggers me, like the fragrance of the wild roses and the deep cracks of thunder in summer.
The next months will be our final first season living here. Then we will have experienced a full calendar under this roof, and the spring will be new and different but familiar. Our tracks will become a trail, a trail a path, a path a byway. Onward.
Teach us to number our days
that we may gain a heart of wisdom.