Remember?

I was buttered in sunlight with my fingers in the milkweed last summer. Spittlebug foam drew the ants and a few feet away I found crumbling stones leading to the stream.

Visiting that shady spot with my bare toes under water by the pines I looked at the meadow. Wildflowers.

Yesterday:

Through winter's hard ground I saw daffodils breaking the surface too soon, just another day in February. Later this month I'll wander to a lower corner of my rocky yard and poke at the witch hazel branches, begging its drops of gold to stretch into feathery yellow blooms.

I am not thinking about much today, or maybe I am, but mostly I am just keeping the fingers moving.

A thought:

From the darkness in a dream came his reflective eyes like ink as he stared. Whatever I was dreaming about was over as I looked at him again, trying to understand. It's the guy who sat nearby in my head while I dreamed my little girl dreams as a kid. I never gave him a name.