Spring has… sprung?

The sky is blue and clear, the sun shining.  The calendar says it’s spring.

Our clocks already made the great leap forward.
Once again the sun hits my eyes as I head to work.  (I’ve never been sure where the savings come in.)

But the grass is still brown, dormant, waiting.
The ground holds patches of ice that used to be snow, dirt captured within.
The wind carries the same sharp bite it’s held for months.

I am tired of jeans and sweaters and sleeves and coats.
Spring should mean t-shirts and sandals and warmth.

I survived my first northern winter in a decade.  I’m ready for a weather reward.

Is it spring yet?

 

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Snow

White puffs fall like smoke from the roofs.

Drifting clouds of frozen fog shrink my view, while flakes melt to raindrops on my windshield.

Everywhere cars creep, drivers skittish on slick surfaces.

Sky and street reflect sodium lights to turn everything an odd shade of pink as monochrome coats the world.

Snow dust gathers, builds dunes, insubstantial hills and valleys appearing where once the earth was flat.

Winter weather comes again.

That Silly Thanksgiving Poem

When I was in elementary school I wrote a silly Thanksgiving poem.  The school created a “book” of students’ writing and drawings, and somehow the food-related poem ended up in the publication.

I have no idea how they chose what went in; that was a long time ago.

I don’t remember the whole poem, but the final verse was family humor for a while so it stuck.  It occasionally pops into my head, particularly when I overeat.  (Tonight I ate way too much barbecue, and the poem appeared on cue.)

I know, I know.  Now I have to share:

I ate so much I think I’ll die.
Oh my gosh, there’s cherry pie!
My grandma makes the very best,
I’ll cut one slice and eat the rest!

Not fantastic, but you can see why it shows up when I pig out!

Tired

Heavy head
half-mast lids
limbs that resist movement

Slow thoughts
quiet mind
emotions lost in a sinkhole of apathy

Exhaustion sneaks up
Kept away by action
Let in by comfort

I don’t want to get up from my chair
even just to go to bed

sleepy.

Pirouette

Lift, stretch, point

Ball of the foot connects with the floor

Knee bend, push,

Spin.

A tug, slight pain, as skin briefly sticks to floor, before momentum moves on.

For a moment, suspended, body out of my control

Land, knee bend, arms stretch,

Pose.

I am not dead – a blogging poem

I am not dead.

I thought perhaps you’d be worried.

After all, I did not post yesterday.
I almost missed today.

But what would my readers think
Were I to miss two days in a row?

especially so soon after another skipped day

That would make six this month
and it’s only the eighteenth.
One third of my days not written.

So I thought maybe you’d be worried.

That I had died
Or taken ill
Or had some other tragedy befall me.

None of these is true.

Life is busy.
Days are short.
I find myself pulled by the usual things that get in the way.

But I am not dead.

In case you were worried.

Hands

The wind, the wind, always the wind.
Pulling every drop of liquid from my skin.

Washing, washing, wash them again.
Hands wet to dry to wet all day.

My skin is dry, dry, dry.
Desiccated, cracking.

Sandpaper fingers, red angry knuckles.

Tiny scarlet crevices seeping blood.

Scrub off the sandpaper, rub in the smooth
Grit your teeth.  Wait just a bit.
The sharp sting will chase away the pain.

Gloves.  My life is already full of gloves.
Gloves to keep off the water at work.
Gloves to keep in the lotion at night.
Soon gloves to keep out the cold.

And winter hasn’t even begun.

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