Spring. Before.
—
Rain. Not snow. But almost.
Drench down leaves. Sleeping wood.
Soak ice rocks. Thaw ice dirt. Drown ice mud.
Green grass still green.
Yellow grass might be green again.
Green trees ever green.
Brown branches might bear green again.
Bulbs hibernating.
Seeds waiting.
Patient, already itching inside.
Up, out soon.
Warm not warm.
Just compared.
To March.
To Winter.
Life’s lustrous locks will soon be unbound shook in the breeze aired out releasing its scents and our happy eyes see this before it happens our anticipatory noses sniff a change before one ounce of change falls on these northern hills because it’s not yet spring.
Not yet.
Years know nothing is new.
We recycle this season again.
Life isn’t new. Life is life.
Life finds us again,
is being reborn,
is not new,
is old as old is.
Years remind us.
Years know.
Spring will embrace us,
will embrace us yet.
But not yet.
And the hope of a warm embrace
grows cold at night.
My spring is an itchy seed.
Thousands of miles away.
Maybe lightyears.
My spring is grasping for hope.
And hope is cold at night.
It itches, wet and heavy with life,
but it’s cold at night.