Postcards

 I like postcards. Here’s a postcard from the landscape of loss. 

It’s pretty here. The Spring signs:  leaves being born, the wind pushing air into spins, sweeping the ground of cracked leaves. The mysterious movements of seeds. Into this landscape of black and white and sad, twirls green. I’m a teetering seesaw of wanting greens; lake Green, mint Green, soft Greens mixed with the stiffness of standing, in the dull comfort of brown.