Through my room darkening blinds I can sense the world whitewashed first thing this morning -
although in light, not snow.
Flakes will flutter and fly before the day is done I am told -
The calendar confirms they won't linger long.
The sun is rising earlier in the east every day.
Soon the birds back from the south will be bustling in the bushes below my window ajar.
Their cackles and chirps blown in on spring's wakening breeze -
Bitter and harsh early on,
Then humid and billowy.
The wind carrying a message of it's own -
Words from the north or a missive from the south.
The branches of the crab apple tree are dying to show off their buds -
Seemingly they will appear overnight.
The barren boughs will burst with leaves and soon flowers.
Then the newborn petals will wilt onto the ground on the whim of a wet windy day -
The sweet spring smell overcome by the dusky decay of what is always to come.
This tree waits all year for a week's worth of blooms if she is fortunate.
I want to ask her if it is worth it -
But I think I know the answer.
The grass will soon grow green and soften caressing my bare feet when I cross the lawn -
Cool blades thick like velvety feathers until scorched by the sun and denied water,
Then sharp like a sea of splintered stones with each step I cautiously take.
I wonder what it feels like to lie dormant while the rest of the world stretches for fair share of sun and few drops of rain.
Is inertion a relief?
Or is it the only remedy?
I haven't changed my calendar yet. It still reads February. It's not that I don't like spring although for most of my life that's what I have said. That's what I've felt. It's just that I don't like change. Change, even for the better, confronts me like an assault. The only thing worse is being betwixt and between, which is exactly where I am left in the blur between the last days of winter before spring. I celebrate that it will snow today, but worry will it melt tomorrow? Is this the last snowfall of the season? Firsts and lasts call for a pause...a prayer. When it snows again, will I be counting down the days until Christmas? Will time march on through tulips to peonies to mums until it's time to dig it all up before the first frost? Life is fleeting. Nature is a near constant reminder of this fact. I marvel at the world's transformation from one day or season to the next, but the impermanence...the transience makes me uncomfortable and just a little sad.