If Spring would come perhaps I would find myself standing, arms spread wide, in a field of flowers. If Spring were here, perhaps the taste of nectar on my lips would yield to a joyous smile. If Spring were here perhaps I woucl shed this heavy coat and let the sun soak into my skin. If and if and if, a litany that continues to reverberate through the cold afternoon and settle on my tongue making dinner quite unpalatable.
Why is it that winter has left me to this boggy state of mind? I feel drugged and listless, as if my existence is a drag on the universe. The day simply to hard to stumble through. The press of the phone and the email alerts craving my attention are like anchors on my soul. I have a profound and overwhelming need to dig my toes into freshly genned up mud after a light spring rain.
I can almost smell the freedom of the next season. It is as tantalizingly clear to my senses as that of a lover breathing on my neck. Yet I stand alone in the room and see only the early greying of the day and the loss of light. I recoil from this much as a teenager would from the hands of an octagenarian fumbling at their thigh.
Again I test out my litany of if statements only to realize that Spring will not come sooner with the chanting of my wishes. I must make my peace with the season that I live in. I gather the grey day to me and pick at it. Slowly I find threads that shimmer here and there, piecing and weaving together a fabric that is at once both beautiful and warm. It is intangible, but credible enough for me to wrap myself in it and continue through the day and into the evening knowing that I can be comfortable with winter - at least long enough to bide my time til Spring.
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