It's a Spring Thing

Well, hello again.


I've been wading through the bags and boxes of papers that I am currently buried under, and in the middle of throwing out 12 year old household bills and receipts ("you never know when you might need them!"), magazine clippings, design notes and 'to-do' lists that I kept for who-knows-what-reason, I came across a bunch of old writing of mine that I completely forgot about. It's mostly in 'raw' form, stuff I scribbled down in a moment of clarity and/or emotion, and put aside to work on later. I thought I'd share some of it 'as is' because frankly, it's pretty neat, I think :o) Anyway, here we go. This first one was written during that time when winter has long overstayed its welcome and I desperately search for a sign of spring, in any form it cares to take:
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One more monotone morning
cursing this annual February madness
Sick of drab, lifeless grey
of sinuses and lungs chilled from the inside.

Constricted, bound in too many layers
of wool and Thinsulate,
I begin my daily walk, a stubborn
ritual in defiance of a northeastern climate.

Greeted by remnants of slush the color of carbon monoxide
and bits of litter embedded in hazy soot-speckled ice.

The snap of a freeze dried leaf is
deceptive,
but no less dead than the twigs
crackling beneath my feet.

Between my grumblings I notice a faint something familiar in the breeze.
It smells--slightly green.

It seems the Not Quite Prodigal Mom returns,
just when we thought she had gone off to a better, warmer place.
Like a frustrating wayward lover,
away just long enough to forget
his scent, his warmth,
has face, but for a vestige of form.

But she does return, reminding me
how she fuels us, feeds us,
endless flow of energy below every surface
humming, vibrating, rumbling,
calling from every brook and stone.

Air full of sweet healing life
as cold shocked soil contorts in response, heaving under
the brittle blades of last year's lawns.

Tips of branches near bursting,
reaching outward to a new sun
warmer, brighter, friendly and true.

The stuff painters dream of
and live to duplicate, but can't.
Bird, plant, animal wait.
Wait for the glorious eruption that is
Life Renewed.

Wait to drink the moist fullness of a gentle shower
laden with lush greens and rich browns,
and dare I say--sultry.
Wait for that outstretched hand,
the cloak of security
to wrap us all in the assurance that
we are fed, and all is well again.