Everything happens in May. I say it every year. And every year it happens again.
The flowers bloom in earnest, and without warning, the trees explode into green again. I awake one morning to the victorious song of birds bringing home early-bird worms to their newly born babes, and I wonder when it happened…when did the world come back so raucously, vivaciously, deliciously alive?
I start peeling off layers and am soon stepping out in bare feet to get the mail. An abandoned ski glove skitters across the closet floor to the dark corner and I don’t need to retrieve it so it stays where I will lose it and curse it when winter returns in all of its biting cold and cracked finger fury. But for now I don’t need it, can’t tend to it, am too busy planting and mowing and watering and growing and feeding this life on fire outside my kitchen door.
Life is on fire.
Forests burn to the ground. Nature intends it. The old wood burns and we mourn its loss, but the heat from its inferno explodes open the cones of seeds, seeds that have been waiting to be released for years, seeds that will strive and grow and repopulate the forest until it is their time to sacrifice themselves to create the blazing heat of life for the next generation.
R.I.P. Christopher MacDonald, this year’s May inferno.
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