The sun waits at the horizon, surprised by the rainwashed world so clean and bright like nothing I have seen since child eyes can imagine. Smelling freshly laundered green leaves hanging out to dry on grey rope branches. Photo Shop mist lingering on the lawns, reluctantly rising from its lush soft bed. Cardinal chirping cuts with crystal clarity of sound, and not a breeze disturbs the drops left clinging to bouquets of lilacs.
Joy cannot be known as well except for pain. Clean mornings cannot be loved without the having seen the dingey grey of stormy days.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology