Friday morning, here, and I have yet to enjoy breakfast.
Daydreams and wishes gently couple and sway in a mind remembering.
My face is peaceful, relaxed.
Fond memories erupt one upon another, scenes from last summer, of Monet's Giverny garden.
Crunching gravel paths underfoot. Endless varieties of floral offerings both dainty and colossal. Shimmering pink blossomed lily ponds and trickling streams.
Colors subtle and bold. Aromas sweet and spicy. Air humid and zephyrean.
In the rambling, welcoming maison, freshly painted sunlit rooms of pale yellow, sky blue, lavender, and Monet green rise from patterned tile floors and Persian rugs. Sheen-polished wooden antiques prompt musings, and masterful canvassed artwork overtakes high walls in the artist's gallery.
As if existing in a painting, my senses immersed in loveliness, immense gratification floods my spirit.
With today's memory-beckoned daydream in mind, I welcome March. And with it hope of my own garden already sprouting, soon to flourish with surprise and expectation, serendipity and excitement.
In my daydream, you join me on Monet's French bench in Giverny. Here we rest our feet and legs after crunching, inspecting, and sniffing our horticultural wonderland. Deep contended sighs from fresh-air filled lungs breathe in and out. Speaking in whispered tones so as not to disturb the bees and birds, even serenity herself, we gleefully design our own seasonal gardens.
In our whimsy, let's imagine today is the third of June rather than March. The cobblestones are warm, so is the bench. Blue sky overhead, greenery all around, with every color of flower floating above and within Monet's impressionist sea. Bird song. Humming bees. Giggling children. We find ourselves refreshed, rejuvenated, rejoicing in the enchantment of a friendly day in a lush and lovely place.
Here we are, together, in le jardin de Monet. . .
. . . where dreams come true, their memory sweetly relived in daydreams.
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