At the table in the dusky kitchen, watching the sky come to life above the gable of the gray house next door. An instant ago I was thinking about the solid grayness of the house; I'd have called the sky gray, too, if the house weren't touching it. The house is gray. What to call the sky?
This thought came and went in far less time than it took me to write it down. In that time the sky changed from not-gray to not-gray-marbled-with-pink. Now the pink's gone again, and the sky again is not a color, exactly -- not gray -- but a filling-with-light.
The maple outside the window is budding. The cape jessamine's a burning tangle by the road. These are the kinds of thoughts I'm used to having in the middle of Lent: beauty, or the promise of it, in the midst of austerity. It's disorienting somehow not to frame this season with penance. Where did my checks and balances go? You mean to tell me I just get given this?