Impatience and Flowers

Spring has come early to my notebooks. There are little flowers scrawled in the margins. Tiny daisies, snowdrops, crocuses, along with all the unnamed flowers seeded only from the corners of my imagination.

I’m impatient for spring. For green. For warmth. True warmth from the sun, not radiators that always leave your toes cold.

The warm beautiful intermittent days like yesterday only tease me, make me even more desperate for lasting spring. This morning I woke up to see snow falling grey outside my window. It was more crushing than I had any right to be. Yesterday was beautiful. I walked in the sun and through the mud, arriving at my destination with a warm body and a cold nose. Today, everything outside is grey, so I’ll sit inside and draw lopsided flowers in my notebooks as my pen daydreams of spring.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been so completely impatient for spring before. I am aching for the warmth of spring to truly arrive. I feel like I’ve accumulated so much quiet tension in my skin over the winter. I crave the warmth and sun that will wash it all away and I’m impatient for it to arrive.

My poorly scrawled flowers sneak their way out of my notebooks as the pen in my hand (leaving inky blotches on my skin) wanders aimlessly. My coffee cup has sprung into bloom (roll up the rim to win lose) and my to do list has been engulfed in vines ornamented with lopsided trumpet lilies.

Even my skin can’t escape this early bloom.  Not paying attention to my pen I absentmindedly scrawled a flower on my pinky finger. Later, forgetting, I rested my face in my hand, leaving an inky smudge on my left temple.

Everything is coming out in flowers and poetry, and a line from a Great Big Sea song keep running through my head: “The days will wash away the nights when Summer (Spring) comes” I’m ready for this grey, cold, tired winter to be over.