Robins

Robins

Rain falls down.

Dripping on and soaking my exposed belly with you inside as I walk the path.

The ditch teems with water, swirling, swooshing to the lower river. And there, it bursts and flows, as the cows gather at its edge, watching me out of the corner of their eye.

I walk with you, eyeglasses covered in a fine mist of wet, boot seams beginning to weep with the feeling of Spring.

Though it rains, these boots and I continue. Through the brown muck path, across the crusty snow-covered parts, too. Today, I am grateful.

Work is finished and this is my job now. To unwind, to be present.

Stuck in the world of in-between, where I continue to nurture your growth while sensing the changing Spring air means change is coming.

The trees greet me, weeping too, as I approach the lake’s edge a mile down the way, and I remind them I am here once again- walking this path, with a babe as my partner.

Walking this path as I did with my Millie inside, and with Wren’s hand in mine. Walking this path as I do every season of the year until the snow grows too deep in the forest’s centre.

This pregnancy was beautiful but challenging. So as I stand at the lake’s edge, I appreciate that I am here near the end, and try to leave the details of the rest behind.

This journey is a gift, and this path reminds me. I am still capable, I am still gifted, I am here once again.

And with Spring being inhaled with every breath, with the squirrels dashing and the crows cawing, with the chickens laying their beautiful blues once more, I am reminded there is hope. On the way back, a robin dances across the roof of the home your father builds for us, and I smile.

Hope is what Spring brings. Each year I forget how happy the rain can make me.

Spring has arrived, these muddy boots could tell you. It’s time.

 

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