A reunion and a movement

Springtime dips its toes into Värmland. Catching nature off guard; dazed with sleep and a bag lady hairdo. The lawn is a dog on its back, begging for a scratch. We are raking the leaves from its fur – those autumn leftovers surprised by snow; corroded, as if magically morphed into cramped mummy’s hands. They will turn to smoke as April turns to May, like a hastily rolled cigar between the fingers of the atmosphere – celebrating the release of its kangaroo carried offspring while leisurely leaning behind the solid, built-in-place, oak desk.

And the trees: still undressed – old men lost at the nursing home. They need our respect. We must not laugh at their helplessness, as we often do when the strong become weak. Unaware of their ageing backwards. Not knowing that their branches are actually their roots, and the leaves are their parents, aching to reignite. And we are the see through ones – opening the rusty stuck door, uncovering a new world. A reunion and a movement; towards that future space, into which we were once born.