Old habits die young. It isn’t how the saying goes, but its what I’m after. Burn off the dead wood, shed the skin of what yesterday demanded. The page turned and found me at the head of a new chapter. An unlit cigar. Where flowers grow. Today is where fields, blankets, sheets of purple wildflowers and Queen Anne’s Lace begin. They are dancing around in the wind with as much breath as waves breathe, hit the shore.
I’ve stood here before. I’ve stood at the threshold, one step from prospect’s door, beholding abundance with tired eyes. I’ve seen these open skies after years on the forest floor. I’ve clung to the perimeter, where the shade of yesterday’s trees uphold a pillar, retrace a letter in the name I’ve called myself.
Old habits die fast as I run into plenty. It isn’t how the saying goes, but it sure would be nice, now here I am where flowers grow.