March, Longing for Spring.
I was young at the beginning of winter. Easily sustained by a lichen on a trunk or an icy turquoise sky. But now, it’s March and I’m ninety nine years older, each miracle is less nutritious. I’m impatient with the slow drip drip of spring. Cold, creeping light, is too cold, too reluctant. Only snowdrops, for weeks. Then aconites, in mud. Bird song, on deaf old ears. Catkins, just hang. I can see the magic weakly but I’m thirsty for more.
I know these precious drops will become a steady trickle until by June I am soaked to the skin in a torrent of blossom and a rainbow of greens.
It’s just that as it starts to snow again, I wonder if I’ve got the strength to wait.