Canticle of the Blackberry Winter
If I am any season, I am spring.
I am late twilight hours driving through dense fog spread like
tangible shadows under orange lamp posts.
I am morning birds outside your window chirping into
the afternoon sun. I am long drives home down roads swept
with magenta sun. On days when I am filled with volcanic
sand, I am spring storms that speak in thunder
and lash out in lightning - wind that bullfights trees and
makes grounded beings lose their gravity.
In this, there is freedom. There is unpredictability.
There is hope.
Spring is the relief after months of chill and
sunlessness. It rattles the unlit house at midnight and greets
you with rain-loving crocuses in the morning. There is no
pressure for spring to be anything that it is not, for winter is
cold and summer is warm, but what is spring? It’s all in one.
Bare branches and verdant leaves, frosty Sundays
fields, sunlight in puddles and rain on the dirt.
her goodbye to winter in a low whisper, but
sings her ever
joyful welcome to cloudless skies full