You could see the Spring coming on, bit by bit each day, until a glorious night of warming wind would bring it abruptly in one morning. You knew that the river was showing its true rippling face, that the ice had pealed off in splotchy layers. More things stirred along the banks now and within the always current. We could count ourselves lucky to have endured another dead season where foliage disappears and you try to ignore the death count from the flu and the black ice. Yes, this dim light is replaced once again by our solar landlord and things become longer. I am sure of positive daily developments when the spring is revived, like there is some guarantee packaged in that says, “all will be well.”
These warm seasons, however, retain a bit of fear alongside them. How quickly they reappear, how fierce the heat burgeons, how the land becomes tender for the sparks. Things are burning and we still renounce the seasons as we cloroflorocarbonate the ailing atmosphere. Its a mindfuck for meteorologists and we just scurry along in our sun dresses and jerseys and sandals chasing good vibes and sunshine events. Sure is hard to maintain any sort of care for the change in climate when you’re in pools, on patios, raging festivals and looking to make your immediate living something that maximizes pleasure.