A Late Winter Swelling

This was actually written in February of this year.  I’m aware it’s a tad out of season.  Sorry for the lack of pictures lately.

Among the dark days doled out during this winter of my own discontent, in this month of quadrennially added days, a granule of the spring to come (or maybe of one past) has sifted through the gloomy filter of heavens overcast.

The sun, unencumbered! The work day is usurped by thaw, by the evanescent scent of fertile ground, by the amorous activities of animals, by the hum of optimistic bees amongst the sex of hardy, early bulbs.

My last five turns tilted from the sun were spent in the land of the Great Damp. This was my first spent since, humbled in my home state. I had returned from western Washington under duress, a refugee from caustic affairs and soggy weather, expecting the sultry summers and white, crisp winters of Pennsylvania to dislodge my soul from the morass of saturated flesh that the people and weather of Washington had molded me into.

The summer to which I returned, however, was just as wet as the one I had left. And despite a harsh thrashing of snow in late October which laid heavily on the still-leaved trees (and cracked and boomed like Armageddon as limb after limb succumbed to the weight – power lines snapped sizzling to the ground and roofs caved in as the burdened boughs yielded to their loads), winter was not white, and yet wet.

And so I was denied the death of a desolate winter. I slogged onward through the muck, protected from the wet only by layers of wool and an internal membrane of bourbon. Still, a seed sat dormant inside of me, with greater anticipation of renewal than my own. A corpuscle of expectation.

Then this late day in February, as the sun frees itself of the bondage of clouds it activates as if by string or mechanism the ardor of minute life, the vigor of existence. Dark earth, crumbled like heady cheese, fragrant with life and fermentation, cross-hatched by ghostly mycelium thrusting its umbrella fruit, rising steam, bulging bulbs; all is tumescent. I am suddenly enveloped in the miasma as a fetus in its placenta, nourished in some osmotic way by the slow reanimation of life.

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