Flew past. The month of March beat its wings overhead in a migratory fashion and sought shelter elsewhere.
These days fly by so quickly it's as if time, itself, has chosen an alternate nesting ground. I can watch it pass, admire it's movement, make efforts to pull together a shrine to its moments.
I've always been prone to this persistent tug to preserve those moments at the cost of full inhabiting them. As a child curled beneath the dogwood with her journal, thinking myself Harriet the Spy of Springtime Events, I remember the compulsion to record changing azalea colors, the scent of fresh bark, the way grass turned neon after rain.
The same inability to let time pass without remark.
The same urge (oh unquenchable urge) to make something more of the lovely singulars.
This hunger that leads me to the page, the photo, the collage, the trail, all of it, onward.
A molehill is, in fact, a mountain to some living being.
And a moment is a monument to this restless mother. I can't help saving what I love. Savoring it as we live it. Holding the words in my head for someone that might seek them later....
