Saturday, March 19, 2011

The Nine Months Of Winter

Brittle nougats of snow chunks being chomped on daily by sun teeth. The dull day is still fog,mist, cloud cover but the light from the masked sun is sufficient to chew on road candy.  I won't miss any of the confectionery.  It is beautiful --but the cold beauty of a Saran wrapped toy landscape.  I want the red lipstick of poppy mouths. I am tired of seeing through the woody tentacles of the floppy sea creatures that wave their anemone arms and make coral reefs of winter language on the heft of the land that blocks me from the rest of the world.  The walls feel as if they were being shoved by these shoulders of snow that will not go, will not leave the place to let the grasses placate the weariness with green.  Starving for green. I feel cow-like and emaciated.

If you are a gardener, you know how much this pregnancy time tires--how the 9 months of holding in the baby in the belly of winter--bothers. You will know the frayed temper, the heaviness, the weariness with the hard mound of snow that sits forbidding birth.  And you will understand how the first kicks of life in that belly--how they make you feel. As if you were no longer carrying a heavy weight.  As if spring were imminent.

The birth of spring. No mother could look forward to the birth of her baby --more eagerly than I look forward to the small hard knuckles of wood bearing their corpuscles of buds. I wait for the buds like a caterpillar for a green leaf.  Then the pussy willows.  That glove gray the world.  It is such a long wait.  The 9 months of winter.  When will this gestation period be over? 

I will go to Apache Seeds and buy some packages of seeds today. I will line them up like a welcoming committee for the infant spring. Out of their paper sacs will rise a burden of red, pink and orange poppies --that will obliterate the white wash outside --that will palette the world with a noisome show of colour ---that will robe my part of the world in satins, silks and velvets.  I will have a committee of loud speakers in poppy suits to say that winter is finally over; that the long 9 months of incubating spring is done with.  I will have a poppy bed that will speak to the world with impudent lips as if to remark--"What? Did you not expect such tawdry display?  We are no hot house geraniums.  We loudly speak of what it is to be living.  We are poppies." And I will be loud like them.

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