spring smells

s applauds my bike-riding to the garage, to pick up my car
after he has spent the afternoon
inspecting the new
abnormally loud
sound
coming from the area under the trunk that I know to be the location of
the muffler,
now he shouts to me as I pull into the garage on my bike, so good to see people biking! he shouts because of his old ears

I shout back yes!

I say that especially this time of year its extra special to bike because I get to experience all of the spring smells

never thought of that he says loudly

I am thinking of the way here:
the lilac
and the apple
and the ornamental cherry
and the magnolia
and the indian restaurant
and the pinks
and the reds,
and the recent rain on pavement
and someone grilling in their backyard
and then that moment of old garbage
on the corner of Hawley and route 9

to unfold right now

on the way home from the forest on sunday, so many spring ephemerals!! , driving past all of the blooming shrubs and trees on the sides of the road we start shouting out-loud from the point of view of Spring

be your best self, bloom! lots of colors! shine! give it all you got! go go go!

as if your life depends on it! all at once! no holding back! get out there! be brilliant! all the colors! all the time! go go !

we are laughing in between shouting because its all true, because there’s a lot to do – homework, farm work, school work, because of all of the other tangled up feelings, because of heartache because it is the time of unfolding but what if I don’t want to unfold right now

morning frozen

mud season m says when I tell him how three of us had to push the truck out of a rut in the garden, and that’s what all the mud splatter is on my jeans mud season when i get out early the next morning because the ground is still morning frozen to drive the van out back to unload the logs mud season when I notice the drag of mud from my boot into the elementary school hallway guilty after taking my lunch break walking around outside without a coat, or even a hat, mud season because 50 degrees feels like 75, and I can hear the red winged blackbirds purr growl trill their song from the clump of elms and oaks at the edge of the river.

what else i can’t see

the river water is colder than the air

all day it rains a warm rain that
covers the river in
mist almost too thick to see through.

i stop at the bridge and watch the fast moving murky water –wider than its been in months, carrying huge sticks and stones and what else i can’t see.

it is the shortest day of the year. i step out of my car and my foot slides in the mud

ice and sky

the ice and the sky are different shades of the same early morning, subtle pink through dreary white and beige and grey and the faintest of blue bouncing off from somewhere in between the browns of dried grasses and leafless trees.

i look down the frozen lake at the beaver lodge as I’m putting on my skates for the first time in almost a year, loosening the laces and then re-loosening the laces, finally my feet fit and slide in snug.

the cold air is still and awake and i am alive in it. i remember how to move, slowly, steadily, and probably not the most gracefully yet something so elegant about not lifting up clumsy feet, and pretending instead that i float on this water turned solid

i stay on the far side of the lake from the beaver lodge because things look watery over there, they break the ice around their lodge from below with their heads, or their tails , or something s says and the dusting of snow on the ice is perfect to see the tracks of a canine leading from our near shore to the lodge that just can’t be a domestic dog because dogs are too clumsy to make straight lines like that.

new skin i take

in the dream i have an extra outer layer of skin on my hands, thin and peeling and
cracked in many places.
inside the cracks i see small pantry moths crawling and cocooning and growing and i am just freaked out enough to tear away at the skin to rip off the outer layer.
to make myself a new skin i take a new piece of special paper and cut out the shape of a hand

hiking to the beaver ponds we have to thrash our way through overgrown mountain laurel and high bush blueberry, winding around swampy muck and side stepping sloshy puddles. t says wouldn’t it be easier if mammoths were still alive?, instead of deer trails, we would all just follow mammoth trails.

at first we hear the owls, barred?, and then the coyotes, two, maybe four?, announcing themselves with yips and howls, and we can’t help but
stop our hurried walking (the light is fading, and are we going to make it down the mountain before we can’t see anymore?) to smile and listen to everything that happens in this place at the edge of day and night

an indoor picnic of pomegranate, salted almonds, pickled onions and rhubarb apricot jam on toast
arranged on a milk crate table on a solid oak floor. and not to mention the piece of dark chocolate and the four paper bags of different types of seaweed hand-harvested off the coast of maine. tasting the differences between sea lettuce and kelp and irish moss
while wet boots balance on the edge of desk above the
radiator waiting to dry.