There was another year of Covid,
but we crawled out of our caves
like newborn butterflies with sticky wings,
slow and hesitant in the spring sunshine.
We hoped to migrate to a new home
of our own, a fresh start…
but the inheritance was not enough.
Nevertheless the landlord said, “Go.”
A flutter of wings, a flurry,
a tiny hurricane of stress,
and searching, searching, searching
for a safe place to land.
A flying in the dark
—a trusting through blindness—
through not knowing at all
what was meant to be.
The summer sun swelled with heat
yet no shady dale
or safe valley dappled with sunshine
appeared—until it did.
And then it did.
Out of the concrete embrace
of the city we flew,
away from sirens and cement
towards the cedars and starlight.
Towards wind whispering in the fir trees,
the moon staring at me on my patio
and winking as I grin and grin
at the wonder of my new home.
And evenings filled with sunshine
sparkling in the sprinkler-kissed grasses
of the wildflower field
that is my unmowed back yard.
And glistening on the rosy skin
of my newborn daughter,
sleeping like a little wild nymph
in my joyful arms.
“And all is well
And all is well
And all manner of things
shall be well.”
Julian of Norwich
Just East Of Crazy Land 