Friday, February 20, 2009
Harsh Promises in the Wind
Dear Brother Wind,
You are precocious, blasting through town as you did yesterday and this morning. You are a March wind, right? You're not like those metallic winds of December and January, no, those winds are thin and icy, dry as bones. You, my dear brother, carry a promise of something hardly perceivable just yet. Your rawness has a moisture to it that barely hints of spring.
You're cold and sneaky, slipping up the cuffs of my jacket, down my neck, turning my face bright red. Even as cold as you are, though, I hear a whisper underneath all your bravado. It's a spring whisper, it is.
Yesterday while you were trying to blow me into the river, did you hear me laughing? It felt good having all that old winter energy blown away. Yes, it felt good, gave me the giggles even as I was shivering and cursing. Wear the mask of winter, if you like, come early if you please (and apparently you do), but you are a March wind. I see you.