Finding what's left.

I closed my bedroom window this morning on the birds wake in song, but not in vain, I love when in the wee hours that song is easily discerned. I was cold, for the first time since I can remember, I was cold from the run of the winds across me. As I lay in total silence, I felt my self searching for what's left of my life. I thought, today I would cook a good meal and since I am an artist, was an artist, have always felt that the palette is - what it is - and today it would be Portabella mushrooms, onions and handmade pasta. On the the side colors of tangerine, cantaloupe, baby carrots, celery, cucumbers and dicon with parmesan curls. I just couldn't enjoy laboring through trying to eat it. After I peeled open the tangerine I was immediately pulled into Christmas memories, neading the flour and egg I felt my mother's hands squeezing mine and with the first lemon cut I heared the ice cubes cracking and clinkling in pitchers brought out to the garden, long forgotten, brought to me, lemonade. will I forget the wake of mornings song birds without searching, what's left of me?