So it hit 40 at least....and people think it is spring outside....but it is still very much winter, here in Fairfield Maine, on April 1 (I know it is APril 2nd today...but I took these pics yesterday). Outside the world is gray and dirty and puddly and miserable and muddy....people are desperate to get outside and try to 'force' spring, but it just (sadly enough) doesnt work. Kids, as I drove home today, played baseball on partially flooded streets....teens ruined perfectly good rollerblades polluting their Rollerblade ball bearings with coarse sand and grit as they tried to play street hockey. The world doesnt want you outside until it is ready. There's a poem there, but I havent eaten yet and I have low blood sugar and I dont feel like writing a poem....
As much as I want to get the kids outside, it is still very much an INSIDE kind of mindset at the Goldsmith's. Playing dollhouse is the norm for sweet little Maira Girl......the kids desperately want to be outside, but it is that in between time when you cant really play in the snow because it is coarse and crunchy and dirty (like day old soggy newspaper that Robert Frost writes about in A PATCH OF OLD SNOW that I have referenced before). Art and books and PBSkids.org games on the PC are still the norm....at the 20th of April last year Callum started tee ball practice....just saying....
Here is what our front yard looked like on April 1st....out in front of our the 'red' front door is still a Christmas tree buried from December....and our yew bushes are still stretched and mangled in the clutches of a tortuous, draconic winter. Look that word up. You will learn something today. ...
Disgusting snow. Serves us right--all the blackness and grit is our own fault for trying to get rid of it; snow doesnt want to be 'gotten rid of;' it wants to leave in its own time and now the ugliness is the price we pay for rushing it away....
Our backyard area....for the first time, last week, we could open the back door of our breezeway; before that, the snow drifts made it impossible to move the storm door. Hard to believe that in about a month that forsythia will be resplendent with gorgeous yellow flowers, fleeting, totally unlike the snow. Isnt that such a paradox--the winter sticks around for so long--such a bully it is--but the beauty of spring is so transient and fragile; it seems oppressed, like a season 'without a country,' almost, afraid to be constant and stalwart--it quickly is bullied away by summer, leaving only the wet tears of muddy grass creases and skids in its wake....
I hate spring. But I want it. It is time to move on. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5o582N3wOQ
1 comment:
Awesome post, Jared. I think you did write a poem here. I love it.
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