The Witness

“All day the blanket snapped and swelled on the line, roused by a hot spring wind….
From there it witnessed the first sparrow, early flies lifting their sticky feet, and a green haze on the south-sloping hills.
Clouds rose over the mountain….At dusk I took the blanket in, and we slept, restless, under its fragrant weight. “
–Jane Kenyon

It is spring and soon time to empty the beds of blankets and quilts for their day of renewal by clothesline hanging in the sun.  The airing of bedding is a May tradition from generations past, allowing the wind to buff all fresh again with scent of ambient apple and lilac blossoms.

This quilted veil covers our dreams, our fevers, our loving, our deep sleep, our wakeful tossing; now allowed flapping freedom for a day before returning to the weighty responsibility of becoming comfort and protection, tucked, folded, smoothed and ordered.  As we climb back into the realm of the dark, burrowing beneath its weight, breathing deeply from the fragrant breeze of freedom in the fabric, we see through closed eyes the snowy mountains in the distance, smell clouds of pink-white orchard bloom just up the hill,  feel the tousling wind in our hair.  All this from the safety of our bed.

Our dreams, each deep and rhythmic breath, sleep shrouded by the blanketing of spring.

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