I brought some of my peer’s poems from workshop with me to the cemetery today. It is not cold, so I am in no rush. The chilling gray of January and February this winter has worn on me. The early darkness and the semester’s workload has throw me into a bit of seasonal depression (something that I’m not sure I have experienced before). When friends from home and family have called over the past few months, they always ask the same question, “How are you doing Cory?” I have found that I have a standard answer, “I’m okay. Just get me to March.” Well, March is here, and today the skies are blue (for the 3rd time since November) and the sun feels as warm as June.
I throw my bag on the ground and have a seat in my “go-to” spot in the cemetery. In reading a piece by my classmate Jess Server, I am stuck staring, circling, and muttering aloud the final sentence of the poem,
Out there/spring is imminent/and nothing is blooming.
I become even more aware of the physical sensations that I am feeling: the gentle warmth of a sun that keeps making my eyes blink in slow comfort, the songs of the birds that chorus as if they all have just returned today, and the fact that my toes still can move independently (even after 30 minutes).
Looking out from myself, I want to see more evidence of spring. However, there are no buds on the trees, no petals in the flower beds, and the grass is missing its green skin.
The dead patches of brown and tan grass outweigh the minority of the living blades. The rolling slopes of the cemetery remind me of a sepia photograph today. The grass is overwhelmingly short, like a militaryesque buzz cut, and feels coarse against the palms of my hands. If I had some soap and water I would clean my dishes with it.
I breathe in deeply, wanting to smell lilacs. The smell of their candied purple perfume always informs me that spring is official and that summer is not far behind (usually in the first week of May). I cannot smell them; instead I smell a “warm day” in winter. Temperate March air smells like: a wet t-shirt, stale November apple cider, and soggy saltines in chicken noodle soup.
I understand that there are still 21 days left of winter, but damn if my expectations are not aroused by this day. What a vicious temptress March can be. We are told that patience is a virtue, but I have no want for it. And even if I did, waiting for spring is not an act of patience; it is an act of no choice. I know that spring is imminent, but that will not help me tomorrow when it drops back to the thirties. Inevitably today is just a tease but it is still sublime. I smile in this moment.
Cory, you captured these final winter waiting days beautifully. I, too and anxious for spring to begin. To me the first sign are the buds of forsytha. Soon, soon...
ReplyDeleteMy favorite phrase here is "grass missing its green skin." Very poetic.
I imagine that all of our blogs will be bursting once spring actually pops. I say this on the greyest of days. And, yes, the lack of light affects me, too.
I am also hoping for inspiration with the rebirth of spring for blog purposes! I so long for the days where I feel bathed in comfortable warmth and sunlight. Sunlight that is so bright, and yet I find myself not needing sunglasses. Hmmmhhm I can't wait!!!!
ReplyDeleteI like the intimacy that you have with your place, even in this moment of frustration. This intimacy is expressed particularly beautifully in these phrases: "(the grass)feels course against the palms of your hands" and you "breathe in deeply, wanting to smell lilacs." You are engaging all of your senses and I get this sense that you want your surroundings to be a part of you, you are touching, inhaling deeply, holding nothing back.
ReplyDeleteI think that sense of impatience and hopefulness and frustration perhaps allows you to notice everything in this more fully. A favorite poet of mine writes that: When you're looking for what's lost, everything's a sign. I feel that way about the end of winter and the desire for spring (says the person with Seasonal Affective Disorder and a serious Vitamin D deficiency problem).
ReplyDeleteI adore this:
Temperate March air smells like: a wet t-shirt, stale November apple cider, and soggy saltines in chicken noodle soup.
Those are all such familiar smells, but the combination is so surprising. And I can smell this place, right along with you.