Green Crunchy

The soft sluds of winter dulled every sound. Footsteps were muffled by drifts of white, talking to one another took time because of the layers of scarves and woolens wound about crucial circulatory junctions which kept the blood moving through fingers and toes. You held the scarf away from your face to speak, said your piece, then retreated back into the terrapin folds where the warm air was trapped. Listening was done by lifting earflaps. But hear this, sisters and brothers. The seven shrouds are shed, footprints of salt wiped off the linoleum, and two days ago I put my snow shovel into storage. It is spring.

Spring is different from winter. Congratulations, Einstein, you think. Well now roll this around a bit: things snap. Stems and leaves and flowers picked do so with a bright click of sound; leather soles hit bare pavement, voices are clearer without the insulation of snow. Doors slam, rain patters, kids are throwing rocks instead of snowballs. Birds are yelling their heads off, and people are happier from the added oxygen provided by the chugging food engines of new green plants.

The trees stretch their branches forward meters high, tiny specks and dibbles of green leaves mouse their way out further each day. Minute beginnings saturate each limb, the dark branches of winter become furiously speckled as if Persephone wound peridot foliage auguring the performance to come. I like it best just as the leaves arrive, once full-blown it's all salad to me; what's exciting are the tiny spaces of winter left between the burgeoning spring leaves, the greying goodbye conquered by the dazzle of young, tender shoots. Someday I shall come back as a rolling cat, rubbing shoulder and spine into new grass, paws in air, eyes dazed by the hum.

It's chilly tonight; I closed the window near me before sunset. Son arrived safely, happily with his girlfriend in Madrid and made it all the way to Paris. He is in a land six hours ahead, so now must be sleeping at three in the morning in France. Sleeping in France, doesn't that sound like fresh sheets and pillows? The deep sleep of exhausted travelers, dreaming of tomorrow's trotting about. I am ready to turn in myself, to dream of tomorrow's Friday.

Still time weatherways to burrow under covers in jammies. Tuck beneath a comforter and hope for a hot tea or coffee in the morning. An egg. Sleep in a land six hours behind Gallic time and know that the French dream of us, the people on the other side of morning, who sleep on as they rise to a less ancient sun. Goodnight.