I thought they were forget-me-nots but now I’m not so sure. They look more like tiny violets close up. I know nothing of these things. I have lived in the countryside but have never learnt the names of things. I wish I had, though I listen to others’ knowledge and it sounds like poetry to me.

He writes of her waiting. Waiting for their return. Are we all not waiting? And is it such a bad state to be in? I am. In my rest and repose I am waiting for something more, though what I have now is enough. The more will come. It is inevitable, for all of us. Meanwhile, I concentrate on the small things – the tiny wildflowers, the bits of ceramic I find in the gravel, my stitches and the words I write that are akin to those stitches.