Before the predicted rain began to fall we were gifted an hour or so of sunlight and blue sky.
Before it could escape we embraced it, devoured it, soaked up every last bit of it.
We discovered beautiful weeds and spitbugs . . .
Before I could stop him he pulled off yet another clump of blossoms, and before I could stop myself, I let my frustration get the better of me.
Before I gave in to the despair that today might be just like yesterday—full of whining and messes and headaches and discouragement–we found more buds and more blossoms (left fully intact on their respective plants) and promises of better things to come.
We checked on our tadpoles, fed sheep, and colored.
Before we gave up on hope, we found more . . . and that has made all the difference today.
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”