Spring creeps through the cracks and crevasses made wider by the ice and snow.
It’s a dirty little thing, spring.
Full of microbes, fungi, life.
I don’t prefer the excess. The tyrany of things.
Disorganized. Enthusiastic and unstoppable.
I prepare to compromise, to share my quiet world with the noisy profusion of living things.
Like in a fifty’s horror movie, no matter how much napalm you toss on it, spring just keeps growing.
My mind reaches for things I can’t have, like sleep and a clear head.
My eyes swell with pollinating things I’ve never even met.
In my mind, the fever burns new items onto my to do list. The hostel in my head is open and taking reservations. I can no longer say, I’m closed for the season.
Time for reconnections, for bearing our hearts to each other about the sad and sober self-discoveries. We hold these gifts of hibernation up to new light and see they’re not so really big or sad, just true.
Breathing a little deeper, we laugh at our negatives, flip through our stash of frames and throw one on that makes the memory of winter’s wondering more tolerable.
But, I need no frame for my fond recollection. I miss the ice, the thing that filled the cracks, which hid the dirt, which calmed the fervor. I literally itch for the solidity and stillness of an Earth so betrayed by her own perfusions. I force myself not to scratch. Won’t give it the satisfaction!
Unlike her other, more eager critters, I roll from my dark, barren bed, and scorn the long new day ahead.