The spring cries Deborah

I lie down on the grass, near the edge of the meadow, the wood. Flowers are out, blossom is on many a tree. Plenty of sweet odours if one cares to sniff.

The grass cries Deborah.

Of course I am a creature of nature.

The day is fresh. The year is fresh. The sun shines brightly.

The sun cries Deborah.

I feel my humanity. I feel urges to create, to connect. I feel my sexuality.

The Easter bunnies are doing their bunny thing.

I climb inside my bubble of hubris, imagination and desire. I float upwards through the air.

The sky cries Deborah.