Waiting

Blue sky, no clouds. I'm looking out at the backyard. The lawn is waking up, now twice as green as yesterday despite a heavy thatch of brown. Still, there is enough green grass such that two rabbits have been finding sufficient sustenance to warrant grazing the last few evenings. They are amazingly plump after such a long hibernation. The corner of the deck where the flower pot usually sits is empty while the pruned geranium practices resurrection in the basement laundry tub. Along the back of the fence, shrubs are stick bouquets awaiting buds and blossoms. Ferns lay furled underground. A yellow day lily counts down. Lilacs are a month away. Two Adirondack chairs face southwest, the best position to catch the afternoon sun. Empty now, but open. Everything seemingly empty, but open to be filled. Expectancy. Invitation. Promise in this still moment of not fighting against winter, yet not fully alive. This neutral moment before the concert begins.