Face into the wind
What is it in a cool spring breeze that carries the sea with it across continents?
There is something of adventure wrapped up in a contentment,
Perhaps like a daydream in that.
Clouds carry me away.
I feel a called out into that newness,
the paradoxical freshness of something so cyclical as Spring.
My body seems as willing to bud as the fruit trees and there is almost a tingling underneath my skin that suggests maybe, one of these years,
I will myself sprout with the daffodils.
It always seems so sudden despite the consistency of time,
And yet suddenly, there is more sunshine.
More birdsong, more scents, more senses,
And yes too, more sensuality.
There is a little more swing in my hips, a little more life in my eyes,
There is energy to stand up straight and let the wind in.
My body speaks a little louder of its appetites;
fresh greens, floral teas, the tender touch of lover.
The very spirit of Creativity is awake and rowdy
It reaches through me into my stiff fingertips and readies them
For the beautiful work of nurturing;
The art that flows up from my soul
And the garden earth that’s dreamed me all winter long.
And still in the moments of pause between bending myself into the turning soil,
I turn…
And heart quickening, catch a glimpse of the sea.
There is something of adventure wrapped up in a contentment,
Perhaps like a daydream in that.
Clouds carry me away.
I feel a called out into that newness,
the paradoxical freshness of something so cyclical as Spring.
My body seems as willing to bud as the fruit trees and there is almost a tingling underneath my skin that suggests maybe, one of these years,
I will myself sprout with the daffodils.
It always seems so sudden despite the consistency of time,
And yet suddenly, there is more sunshine.
More birdsong, more scents, more senses,
And yes too, more sensuality.
There is a little more swing in my hips, a little more life in my eyes,
There is energy to stand up straight and let the wind in.
My body speaks a little louder of its appetites;
fresh greens, floral teas, the tender touch of lover.
The very spirit of Creativity is awake and rowdy
It reaches through me into my stiff fingertips and readies them
For the beautiful work of nurturing;
The art that flows up from my soul
And the garden earth that’s dreamed me all winter long.
And still in the moments of pause between bending myself into the turning soil,
I turn…
And heart quickening, catch a glimpse of the sea.
Comments