In just spring
the world is as mudluscious as ever it could be (in a desert).
I haven’t seen the goat-footed balloon man, but can hear the clip clop of his dancing hooves.
Fruit trees quiver clothed in white and pale pink blossoms
otherwise grayish and dormant with the remnants of winter.
Tulips bloom in bright reds and yellows
Purple hyacinths scent the air
And . . .
Verily, yay verily
I don’t want to do squat.
My productivity is in the pot . . .
Actually, that’s not quite true. I do want to garden and take long walks to admire the wakening world. I want to sprawl on my stomach with the sun warming my back. I want to bury my nose in the still brown grass in the park near my house and smell the earth as it embraces this magical new season.
I want to eat chocolate
and fresh strawberries.
I want to nibble on the first leaves of peppermint and fennel now pushing forth from plants I’d forgotten were there.
I want to gaze at brilliant blue skies and marvel at ever-changing cloudlets.
Why does glorious spring always do this to me?
Why do I look at my life —
no matter whether I worked by myself at home
or now labor in an office with numerous cohorts
— and ponder its lack of color and adventure?
Why do I want to shed more than the heavy, scratchy sweaters of winter and dance
in the crystal darkness of a perfect spring night?
And how the hell am I going to reconcile these urges with the necessity to work and tow the line for the next month or so until the sun beats down with brilliant mercilessness (in the scorching New Mexico summertime) and I once more want to be indoors in air-conditioned bliss?
It’s just spring in Albuquerque
And I can hear the plants growing in my yard
can sense them calling for attention . . .
The words and work that fill my necessary days seem trivial compared to
the first-seen violet and orange iris bursting open at sunrise.
Like an alert doe sniffing the wind,
my nose and mouth taste the new greenness of each unfurling leaf
on each branch of weeping willow and sturdy elm.
Like Ulysses, I must tie myself to the mast of obligation and cover mine eyes Monday through Friday.
Oh, but Saturday and Sunday are upon me and, lo, I do rejoice.
What’s your favorite season? Why?
What’s the weather like in your corner of the world?