On Missing Spring



I didn’t feel April this year.  Although the sepia and gray of winter brightened to greens, yellows, blue skies and high whispy clouds, early Spring passed me.  The Crabapples bloomed and the Mock Orange opened its perfume. The birds wake me mornings instead of the alarm and when night comes, the clock says its later than I think. I know the days come and go, they just move fast.  Last year, this part of the calendar let me savor it, a taste on my tongue like the first strawberry. This year, the season hasn’t waited for me to enjoy it. 

May is here and with it, ninety degrees and the humidity that straightens or tightens the curl of hair.  Greens are dark now, and blooms, pink two weeks ago,  are like tiny pieces of crumpled brown paper littering the ground around the bottom of the Japonica. Bees are flying heavy and slow with collections of pollen and hay grows tall.  Buttercups bloom under the barbed wire fence. Shoes come off and soles toughen.

June will come with swift water moving down the mountain.  I want to be there at the bottom, where the cascade splashes into the reservoir.  I missed April, and May is leaving. I want to be ready for, and  feel June.


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