I hadn't really thought of it until yesterday morning when I stood on the porch in early morning frost and snapped these shots of morning light.
I'd been missing it for far too long, that eastern sky.
That place where art is drawn vividly, extravagantly, voluptuously every single morning, that place where fire burns over the rim of earth, calling the day up with light, that place where beginnings start.
I'd been missing that scene, that fire, that beginning. Because, for seven years, I hadn't been able to see it from my windows.
I stopped.
Seven years?
I wondered about this wonder I'd been missing. Had my soul slowly leaked dry, been starved clear out for lack of sunrise? Was it lying there, gaunt and pastey-white, limp, shrivelled, and paper-thin? Maybe so. Maybe painfully so.
But.
A slow knowing spread smiling through my thoughts just then: Soon, very soon there will be seven feet of wide open window facing the eastern sky.
I'll be drinking it in!
