watering the flowers

I love watering the flowers, the plants. I think that I don't, I don't want to, such a bother, while I am in the middle of doing something else, especially if I am inside. But once I start, I enjoy it. I love the sound of the water hitting the top leaves, then dropping down to the next, a little waterfall, as it cascades down from leaf to leaf, till the flow becomes a drop from one leaf to the next, before taking the big leap, off the last one, down to earth. The sunlight seen through the spray of water, for a moment, in midair, together. The birds chirping and singing, and calling to each other. Light layers of sound, the water, the birds, wind in chimes. Everything seems peaceful, beautiful and right while I am watering the flowers. (I should say plants for few have bloomed. My spirit waits on tip toe, eagerly, peering into the little faces, of each green bed. When will you be ready? When will you bloom? Will it be today? Tomorrow? The next day? When, when, when? Is not winter gone yet, is it not far away enough, for you to be safe, to uncurl, and unfurl yourself, open, to let the sunlight, and rain, and wind touch you? To let the bees know you, and eyes see you? When will you be ready? When will it be time? How deep into spring, and how close to summer, before our faces shall greet? For we can't see each other properly when your eyes are closed.)