I find writing comforting, difficult, necessary.
I write in my mind, every day.
My backyard is a war zone. My heart?
It has been a warm winter, waiting for snow. The daffodils are out (how can that be?) and I worry about climate change. The ground is all misshapen in the backyard, sinister brown with patches of bare dirt spreading, is it the hens, stripping it bare, Marilou, La Rousse, Pitiblanche, Thing One and Thing Two, laying again since mid-January, big impossible eggs, blue eggs, white eggs, brown eggs, hah here's to all of you Misters Make American White Again my backyard flock is a motley of colors and so is my family.
The ground is hard still but the trace of the moles' invasion of this summer I still feel under my feet, the undulation, as I pace back and forth between the back door and the compost pile, the daily chores unfolding, comforting. Things are rotting. Promising.
The promise. My backyard is not a war zone but a promise.