Early
April
Apr 6 2021
A few
remnants of winter
grimly
persist.
Small
orphaned islands
of soft
granular snow
pockmarked
with melt.
Their
moth-eaten edges
inexorably
encroach,
and I
wonder if by morning
there will
be anything left.
They are
dotted with small reflecting pools,
sullied
with broken branches
wind-blown
sand
and the
exhausted ash
from all
the fires that kept me warm
through a
long hard winter,
a tired
grey patina
that goes
all the way down.
Despite
the fine spring sun, I can feel a chill
from the
layer of cold
that
hovers close to the surface.
Last
night, there was a thunderstorm.
I suppose
anything is permitted
in this
liminal space
of fitful
change
and
indeterminate seasons.
Lightning,
blizzard, plagues of frogs.
Dense fog,
and even a
hoarfrost
to dazzle
the eye.
Or hot dry
sun,
warming
the earth
and
softening our hearts.
Because I
know enough by now
to accept
what comes
acknowledge
my powerlessness.
Spring,
the season of mud.
When I
resign myself to fate
and celebrate life.
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