This is the place where the water waits. The water waits for the drawn-out light, it waits for seeds and for plants to nourish. It waits for life to explode.
This is the place I climb hand over hand along the sharp glassine walls of a marine grotto. This is not the soft limestone grotto of my imagination-the one in a far flung rock in the South Pacific. This grotto is a patient granitic cliff that is measured in geologic time, where the Hellebore and Maidenhair sprouting from its cracks announcing spring are measured in sun cycles.
This place. This is the place where water waits, and where I wait and watch the fuzzy bee and the juicy worm go to work.
This is the place where sprite-like grape hyacinth dance amongst snowdrops, with their showy clusters of tiny purple bells rimmed in white like a margarita glass at Tito’s. Their heady grape scent is enough to bring us all to intoxication. The snowdrops hold their own with their dignified bright bowing heads and elegant tendril stems capped with miniature green kippahs.
This is the place from which I can hear a House Finch practicing every sound he can conjure in hopes of attracting his mate. His tune begins self-satisfied, but is long enough to begin to appear desperate. His time is measured in lunar cycles.
The water waits as an artist waits for the perfect moment to strike, to form, to send off. Eons of water have created my temporary refuge. What will I create, I wonder. How will my time be measured?