Deprived of the ordinary markings of days - drives to work, birthdays, people to celebrate - we cling more fervently to organic signs, the constant shifts in the garden, which trees have blossomed, which ones have leaves, how tall the pea plant has grown, how white its petals.
These and the aphids signal time: those and the snails migrating, the worms beneath the compost, the dead bird by the granny flat, rising and falling daily tallies, who died youngest, who's all clear and how long until - we cannot say - only greet other pilgrims on the way, and pray.
Teacher, writer, blogger, husband, father, Christian. Living in Wyndham in Melbourne's west, on the land of the Kulin Nation. Searching for words to console and feed hearts and souls.
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