A different morning

It's morning when I look at the plants in my garden and draw pictures.
Even if the seasons go round and the same flowers bloom in the same season, this is a different morning.
I don't remember when it was, but I suddenly thought so.

Was it the day I finished reading the book, or was it the day my husband's grandmother passed away, or was it the day I heard that news while feeling feverish?

It wasn't a day when anything special happened.
I felt like I had become a different person. Various carcasses have been incorporated as meals, and while my body is being transformed, it continues to quietly become a different thing with tremendous momentum.
And the same thing continues to happen to the plants I see.

what, who were they looking at, and what were they drawing?

Has that bird that died a few years ago already become a flower somewhere else?

I spend a different morning as usual.

oil on canvas