Unnerved
I am restive in spring.
Water drips, carves, pools;
saturated earth
overflows.
The lane has churned to mud
small lakes have formed.
Days lengthen
with dizzying speed
that seems unnatural.
It's like watching asparagus grow;
you hardly believe
you can actually see
a plant in motion.
I feel flooded with light
as the refuge of night
shrinks from reach.
The sun, as reluctant to sleep
as a mischievous child
past his bedtime.
I try to sit and read
but cannot concentrate,
unsettled by urgency, agitation
the speed of change.
So I set down my book
step over the threshold
and turn to face the sun,
no jacket, or boots, or gloves.
Warm air
has the loamy sweetness
of reinvigorated earth;
dead grass, with notes of hay,
waterlogged soil
reawakening.
Like a wild stallion, corralled for months
I pause at the open gate,
unnerved by freedom.
Hesitate, just long enough
then bolt;
my world no longer confined
to furious circling
in the prison of winter's cold.
I very much do have this unsettled restive feeling. I find I can't read nearly as long as in the dark cave of winter. This is the paradox of spring for me: as a nocturnal creature, I find it hard to adjust to the rapid increase in light; and as someone averse to change, I find it hard to keep up with its dizzying pace.
The poem touches on early spring's most salient features: the water everywhere; the plethora of light; the intoxicating smell of soil released from the grip of ice.
The stallion analogy came out of the blue as I wrote. I think the poem would work better if there could have been some foreshadowing or continuing metaphor alluding to confinement, or animals, or even wild horses. But anything I tried seemed shoehorned in; so I left the ending as stand-alone. It includes my favourite line, and what I think is the crux of the poem: unnerved by freedom. And although it's really pretty obvious, bolt works beautifully, and would only lose its impact if I elaborated.
Although I will admit here that the ending isn't really authentic. I not only quite like winter, I hardly feel confined. In fact, somewhat the opposite, as the frozen lake becomes a highway, and the ploughed road is restored, with all its potholes and depressions filled. So perhaps this is more a reflection of guilt: that I feel perfectly fine sitting and reading all day in winter (especially when day comes and goes so fleetingly!); but in spring, this seems somehow decadent, unworthy, unsatisfying.
Water drips, carves, pools;
saturated earth
overflows.
The lane has churned to mud
small lakes have formed.
Days lengthen
with dizzying speed
that seems unnatural.
It's like watching asparagus grow;
you hardly believe
you can actually see
a plant in motion.
I feel flooded with light
as the refuge of night
shrinks from reach.
The sun, as reluctant to sleep
as a mischievous child
past his bedtime.
I try to sit and read
but cannot concentrate,
unsettled by urgency, agitation
the speed of change.
So I set down my book
step over the threshold
and turn to face the sun,
no jacket, or boots, or gloves.
Warm air
has the loamy sweetness
of reinvigorated earth;
dead grass, with notes of hay,
waterlogged soil
reawakening.
Like a wild stallion, corralled for months
I pause at the open gate,
unnerved by freedom.
Hesitate, just long enough
then bolt;
my world no longer confined
to furious circling
in the prison of winter's cold.
I very much do have this unsettled restive feeling. I find I can't read nearly as long as in the dark cave of winter. This is the paradox of spring for me: as a nocturnal creature, I find it hard to adjust to the rapid increase in light; and as someone averse to change, I find it hard to keep up with its dizzying pace.
The poem touches on early spring's most salient features: the water everywhere; the plethora of light; the intoxicating smell of soil released from the grip of ice.
The stallion analogy came out of the blue as I wrote. I think the poem would work better if there could have been some foreshadowing or continuing metaphor alluding to confinement, or animals, or even wild horses. But anything I tried seemed shoehorned in; so I left the ending as stand-alone. It includes my favourite line, and what I think is the crux of the poem: unnerved by freedom. And although it's really pretty obvious, bolt works beautifully, and would only lose its impact if I elaborated.
Although I will admit here that the ending isn't really authentic. I not only quite like winter, I hardly feel confined. In fact, somewhat the opposite, as the frozen lake becomes a highway, and the ploughed road is restored, with all its potholes and depressions filled. So perhaps this is more a reflection of guilt: that I feel perfectly fine sitting and reading all day in winter (especially when day comes and goes so fleetingly!); but in spring, this seems somehow decadent, unworthy, unsatisfying.
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