As if to ease our anxiety, spring arrived early this year. We were treated to another quiet Sunday, filled with the sweetness that lungs love.
At least the healthy ones. It is a different story in hospitals, for people caught by the virus, or for others whose destiny is unraveling through the ax of a tragedy. Nothing is less evident than happiness and misfortune.
Many passers-by in the alley stopped in front of our cherry tree in bloom, taking pictures of themselves against it.
In our garden, the trees are stretching, silently bursting their buds, ready to gobble up the sun. Insects are also emerging from the ground, some of them hovering around the first flowers. The primroses are already dying.
Observing this apparent peace brings back the fatigue accumulated by the confined winter. One breathes a great sigh of relief and promises oneself better days without openly admitting it. Who knows what the next few months will bring. Are we in the eye of a hurricane or on the edge of a weakening storm ?
Once again, my fingers on the keyboard are like those sleeping branches. My consciousness, my thought, my being, whatever I call it, refuses the other seasons, hallucinates itself in its springtime, dresses in as many fabrics as there are dreams, inflates the sails.
But in this theatre, despite the draperies, the sets, and the ideas, I remain naked, fragile in the slightest wind, gaze, hope.
All the same, this spring is beautiful. I slowly close my eyes to open them better, content with the eternally present moment.