Sometimes I'm sure that Spring is mine, only mine. Green is my
colour. Rain is my preference. Soil is my canvas. Buds are my buds.
Spring colourizes dead grass while I stand there in my bare feet, sponges. Spring is potential. Details burgeoning. Energy personified. Water runs marathons down ditches.
Slow down Spring. I know you can't but Summer is too hot, Winter too long. Autumn is second to my Spring but Autumn’s alluring colour is merely
Spring’s closing credits. Spring establishes the story.
Spring was my
father and brothers suddenly gone seeding for a month. Spring was my mother’s Iris spikes and Gladiola bulbs. Spring was my youth studying muddy water, wide
sweeping Saskatchewan water sucked into culverts, an eddy twisting above the hole; I dropped
a stick in there, ran across the road to the other side and I still want to
know where it went. Now, Spring is April pussywillows on my daughter's birthday and the May green leaves on my son's birthday. I keep time
with Spring so I won't waste it.
5 comments:
Beautifully written, dbs! I especially liked the part about the culverts. They were important in my prairie childhood too. Odd to think of that now.
Always, the potential.
Why oh why can't I get here more often? *swoon* I was playing in the mud just this morning and you nailed the joy of wet knees.
Wait. Did I just take that to a dirty place again? Seriously, me. Get some sleep.
inspired
Dude. I choked up a little.
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