March 1967 came in like a lamb, tulips and daffodils bloomed and the sun shone through the shadows. I, swaddled in blankets, kept my hands from sin.
Limbs thrashing, paws open to the winds of change, March 1967 disappeared into the atmosphere atop a lion’s back, growls trembling and claws gnashing through the days.
I am open to the winds of change. Today, feeling let down by circumstance, I swaddle myself, realizing I am pain and bandages. Days of lions chasing lambs and lambs conquering lions, self-inflicted wounds. What day approaches when the lion peacefully lies down with the lamb?
Then she knew, beginnings are the endings.