Lately I haven't felt like writing here, and I'm sorry. I know I should. This is an important time in all of our lives!
The snow is nearly disappeared and sits in low pockets on the hillsides, exhaling its stubborn bon voyage. Last autumn's clean beds break open in crackling lines: tiny canyons where warming air can tuck itself in. Tulips poke up pink through the softening earth, then spread out slow, opening their self-circling arms. The sap is a-flow. High above our heads, the showy poofs of red maples, their inflorescence silhouetted against bare blue sky. Even the sun blinks in the sun, unused to itself. The sound of moving water like a loud crowd in the distance.
change change change change change change change
Sometimes it feels more valuable to just live during these quick-moving epochs. There is so much smelling to do, sticks to throw for insatiable stick-loving dogs, trash to pick out of new gardens, seedlings to worry about. But like little Frederick the Mouse, I think it's important to gather sensations against the next long darkness. Our seasons breed a kind of emotional amnesia: Who can remember what summer is like during winter? Who can really remember what winter is like during summer? We live the full height of each, in a long-form mania, and writing this stuff down is helpful. Then, like Frederick, we can say the colors to each other when they're gone.