I dream of them. Seeds bursting open, green tendrils snaking forth, wrapping around my fingers, urging me to write.
Waking up, I look at my hands, wondering why they feel like they are still bound yet I do not see anything but my skin, still flushed and creased from my fights with my pillows.
To manage the growth of my garden, I must honor the rhythms that Nature is drumming onto me, via the wind, the rain and the sun.
If only Time was so agreeable. I find myself tugging on the robes of Chronos, telling him to just pause, stand still and give me a few more minutes, just a few!
He looks over his shoulder and laughs. “I’m Chronos, he says merrily, with a deep baritone. “You might want to talk to Kairos and see if he can do something for you!”
I’m heeding his advice. After all, who can argue with Time?