It’s the smallest things

the petals of the apple and cherry blossoms littering the ground like so many snowflakes;

tiny purple flowers like stars that have fallen between the blades of grass;

jasmine trumpets hanging in the tree branches.

It’s simple things

the sweet burn of the hot cinnamon spiced tea at breakfast.

It’s as simple as

the turtles sunning themselves on the water-soaked logs in the lake;

pollen-swollen pinecones in the making;

the rumble of thunder before the rain.

It’s the simple smell of bread baking and the taste of butter melting over hot-cross buns during the Lenten season.

It’s the glitter of sunlight on the water and the shadow of trees on the pavement.

It’s the sound–or rather the silence–of my steps along the straw-covered path through the woods.