The Return of Sunshine

So, just as the snow came it is now being thawed by the sunshine licking the final leaves on the tree branches and all around. Yes, I can write long sentences with very little punctuation, as well as putting an aside and not feeling it necessary to bracket it off. But the snow is falling from the warming house tops and bushes and fences, performing a slow vanishing act. It's a scene, for sure. I posted my mother's birthday card. I hope it reaches her in time. I have no idea how efficient the Polish postal service is. It's a learning curve, as should most of our days be, otherwise perhaps they have been wasted, perhaps we didn't do with them what we might have, something we could expand from and then share with the coming generations, from love, from life, from desire.

The sound of the divine 'Proserpina' by Martha Wainwright is ringing around the room, my head. It is a stunning ode to her mother who died not so long ago. Her voice never sounded so beautiful, and I'm sure she felt the need to sing beyond herself when she approached the recording of the final song her mother wrote (so I have heard) before her death. A more perfect song is hard to find, surely. It is the sound of so many emotions. The sadness and glory of every day and the feelings it contains, of reaching for the stars, and both failing and reaching, and never letting go. The return of sunshine, the return of all our dreams, the return of you to me, and vice versa. I return to my mother in a birthday card, just like Martha to her mother in her song, and the sunshine to the land; and the love is all consuming at times.