I wait with little patience as winter's fury refuses to give way to the splendors of spring. The dirt mixed with snow, creating what looks like a charcoal drawing, being erased a little each day. I have been looking through leafless trees that will soon be lush and green, allowing me little space to see past the first few. The air I breathe is crisp but lacks smells so familiar during springtime, like barbeques and freshly mowed grass—newly painted houses and dirt. Snowflakes replaced with fireflies and a feeling all is well in my tiny space on this earth. Then, just as quickly as it arrives, it's gone, fireworks light up the sky, hotdogs are grilled outside, and ice cream cones now have 36 flavors. The heat blankets the land as a drought comes, and the colors of spring wilt and die. One day, you awake, and there's a slight, very slight chill in the air, and you see color in leaves, a most welcome sight, at least briefly, as you remember last winter's wrath and the charcoal drawings.
MO
No comments:
Post a Comment