Tangerine: A Book of Hours

My fingers are still sort of dense, slowed from being outside in the cool air. And there is still a bit more coffee in my Sunday mug.

I was in the yard, a few moments ago, watching ripples move through the pond. Listening to the water. It is a clear and almost warm day. Muddy. Vaguely buddy. (Some trees hold green nubs. A few verdant shoots are peeking from the ground.) A pre-echo of Spring.

Still, you need your gloves and, eventually, a hat. And a steaming mug of coffee (that went down well and glowing). It's fun to see the lines at car washes grow -- and the advent of motorcycles, again. The fish are sluggish and the sky was perfect blue (but has now grown a bit fretful).

My cheeks are still cold.

But I like it.

Posted by The Allurium at 4:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Like a time-slowed wave, emerging in pieces from the sky (rather than all-at-once from the sea) it came, rested, and now pulls back. No sand beneath. Instead: earth, still tight with cold. This retreat is time-shifted-slow, as well. Regressing like water, but over days instead of seconds.

Winter and its court are measured, moving in a different layer of time. (Except for ice, perhaps, who is slow in its heart but fast on its skin.)

Here, now, in a day that is bright and slightly fretful, the snows are melting back: revealing earth, slumber-browned grass, and small puddles of frozen water. There is a plane slipping through the bright white sky.

And the roads are clear. And quiet.

I am tired...though it is not early, nor especially late. A bit light-headed from not eating enough today.

Sitting here, thinking of the snow outside.

That white wave, falling back in slow motion.

Posted by The Allurium at 1:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (1)