When you open your hands, you expect me to put nothing back into them.
When you reach out–giving me a bouquet of branches that are knotted like old lady’s fingers, you expect me not to break them, but rather to notice the time that you spent making them.
When my mouth is parched, you offer a stream–sometimes warm, sometimes icy and cold–and I never care what the difference is.
When they dug a 10 mile wide grave to put you in, you didn’t even whisper in protest. You let them do it…over and over.
When I was heartbroken and lonely, you gave me forests to find myself in.
When I was lost, you did not rest until you had woven me a path made of roots and rocks.
When I was replete with joy, you let me think for an instant that gravity was only in my head–and my legs took me bounding up ridgelines.
When I was hot and tired and bored in the Idaho summers, you gave me dust to run around in and sage to smell and horse hair to braid. And though it wasn’t a lot to give, it was everything to me.
When I thought that I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, or light enough–you showed me a fleet of bluebirds. And then you gave me a throne of rocks and a hillside of sunflowers to make a crown out of.
When I was cold, you softly bronzed my face with girders of gold from your almighty above…and then dusted my eyelashes with silver snow and made me a queen.
When I was in love, you gave me places to explore and days to enjoy…and you were there to share it with us.
When I thought you would stop turning, you kept turning–one second, minute, day, month, year at a time.
Happy Earth Day, bluebirds.
I love you. All of you.