With the sun's first golden beams, I find respite from the night's haunting trepidation. The distant thunder's ominous rumbling, though it woke me from my slumber, seemed to lose its menace with the dawn's embrace. All is calm in the early hours, the approaching storm's winds a mere whisper far off, yet to cross my sight. Sitting in the soft half-light, the heaviness that burdened my mind in the darkest hours has retreated, leaving in its wake a hope that I might tend to my much-neglected garden before the storm's arrival.
10 a.m.
A relentless rain keeps me sequestered within, my longing gaze turned to the wild beauty of the garden beyond my windows. This once-tamed heaven, now a wild and untamed thing of beauty, must bear its neglect yet another weary day. A cruel disappointment indeed, for the beds are choked with weeds, the roses, once resplendent in their glory, now withered, their grey petals fallen forlornly at the base of their thorny stems. Yet amidst the storm's fury, two secret buds have blossomed, a glimmer of life in the tempest's shadow.
4 p.m.
Shadows from the nearby trees stretch over the house, and my thoughts are drawn, perhaps unwillingly, to the impending night. I shall strive to cast aside these unsettling reflections and focus instead on more cheerful matters. My husband, weary yet content from his day's work, would surely welcome a game or mirthful diversion. Perhaps this simple pleasure will suffice to raise my spirits and guide my thoughts away from the encroaching night.