Spring knocks wild on our doors…
Much awaited, somehow disconcerting,
warm Spring knocks wild on our doors.
We’ve lived long months cocooned in rooms,
hiding from chill grays and whites we might
find delightful to ski on but frightful to hold,
deathly against our skin.
Therefore we wear protection.
On hurried forays wrapped in wool or ersatz fleece,
we hear sharp snaps of river ice which crack like rifle shots.
The warming mud smells strangely sweet,
prefacing green odors yet to come.
Grown used to winter numbness, we’re uneasy.
If such things change so all around then what of us?
Our clothing melts like snowbanks under sun,
covering grown thinner, lighter, showing form,
dark shades of earth beneath, presence of
pulsation, movement, growth,
the vitals of creation. Unlike that rich black soil,
we Yankees cling to frigid scraps of fabric,
a decent modicum of coolness not needed by our bodies
but the social peace, comforted by time-honored
convention, protected from unseemly
and overwhelming warmth.
Doomed, futile, vain efforts, for each of us
is made of earth despite all our pretensions.
As though drawn, heads turn to catch
the flight of vital birdsong. Internal rhythms
quicken, as we feel the fragrant breath
of wind warm over and around us,
soaking in through lungs and skin until
our flesh is saturated to the very marrow
of our bones. Inevitably, regardless of what’s worn,
our singing souls dance naked in the primal light.
~ Wry Welwood
late 20th century
re-edited May, 2021