springtime in December
The windows have been flung open. A breeze ruffles loose pages
on the dining room table, and a strange thirst returns - cold water,
lemonade, a glass of iced tea with mint plucked fresh from the garden.
My mind, primed for hibernation, shrinks from the season's wild upending
while I gleefully shrug off my too-warm coat and marvel at the backyard's
sudden blooms. I don't quite know how to behave when the sun's this bright,
and then - like a smack on the jaw - it tumbles out of view so fast. It's not easy
to hold such contradictions, to leave one's heart so unreservedly open, knowing well
the chasms it can, without warning, disappear into. Outside, the trees, having bared
it all, don't hesitate, their naked branches reaching - as always - as far as they can go.