The Sound of Flame

Writing at the Change

What impossible feats await the spring? Will March bring the burning snows? Will the ashfall blanket the earth in silence? Will the flames devour, or will they sputter and stutter, unable to speak their word? Will there be smoke or steam, and when the melt comes, what color will be the stream?

I wish to wait in anticipation, holding to the charge and excitement without fleeing to the future. For winter walks a wonderful path too, and I feel its grip anew. It is quiet and slow and does not seek to too much know. It does some things, and then leaves the rest to the night, as it goes off and sings. The cold bites, but so do I, a little too much pasta and pie. I fill up and into the space winter affords, the slack I give myself, to explore the wealth of rest and reflection. There is this heavy inertia, not trapping me in density or chaining me to the past like yesteryears, just the simple gravitational pull of less doing. I love that lull, and do not wish to see it go by.

Yet I welcome the spring, budding to ring. The play of new life, the total retreat of sin, causing even the ants to grin. When the bunnies stomp their feat, will I hear the beat and dance along? Will the spring flowers enchant me into singing their song? I think I will love it, as I have before, that energy of expansion knocking at my door.

This play of the future I do not know, perplexes me like the image of burning snow, and off to the races does my imagination go. However, I am scared by what I do know. The snow has all but retreated from the winters my childhood knew. Something is burning all the time, oil and gas, fur and pine. Its too hot in this shop we were sold, and the stories of old are collecting this mold. There is a stench of death between the newspaper fold. I think somedays that world is falling apart. Yet I am so grateful to feel in my heart, that this is also a start. Oh, what impossible feats await the spring? And can I help the harvest bring?