There’s a warmth to the early morning air already, and a soft hum of distant traffic. The buzzing of a far off hovering helicopter, is balanced out by the squarks of the overhead parrots starting their day, shrieking from branch to branch.
A stillness to the air, that is appreciated and quietly charges me.
A sleepy sun begins a slow climb upwards, wet washing gets pegged out and plants watered, ready for the heat of the day.
The pause, a moment. A flick off of a reluctant caterpillar. There’s hope in this tiny garden of mine. Tiny bubbles of hope, that at 6am I can feel sitting around me. Hope in more forms than I can count. I like it, in fact I love it. It feels sometime since I had taken the time to fully absorb the morning in my tiny potted garden. Perhaps even some time since I had truly taken in those bubbles of hope.
The kettle has boiled, there is a pot of chai tea waiting inside. Precious minutes, before thoughts are returned to someone or something else for the day.
Maybe just one more moment, with my tiny garden of hope.