Robins gather in the rain around a boulder in the backyard. And finally – crocus! The bark of the trees is stained on one side as an April wind bullies from the west. My daffodils have not bloomed but their green torsos now stand up from dormancy. The creek overflows and water keeps falling and moving and making a way. One sentence after the next, putting in the work of saying nothing again. Are you here yet?
Waking to sleet tapping at the single pane windows. The dog and I make coffee and a fire before anyone stirs. She curls in front of the fireplace like my favorite gingersnap comma. I'm happy when she's happy; that's the way love works.
And when I fell, he ran up the stairs and called out to me. I could hear him but couldn't answer. How tenderly he saves me every time – love works that way too.
A large pot of chili simmers throughout the storm. This snow and ice sets back my planting plans. I spend the day in the kitchen cooking for the week, stopping occasionally to spy on the sparrows visiting the new feeder for the first time. The robins are getting so fat, despite winter's effort to remain. Hot tea, curry chicken salad, and romaine – love wends a way in the bowls we serve.
The plants saved from the dumpster at the greenhouse are now planted and tended, awaiting better conditions. The pots take up space all around the dining room table and they make me supremely happy. Certain letters are never written, but that is love, too. Do you see?
By late afternoon, there is a lull in the storm. Ice melts off the roof and the old Subaru and the gazebo out back. L decides to sing Winehouse's “Back to Black” at the gig, after a few saxophone features. How worlds cross. How time stutters a bit. How we love our children even though they rise and dissipate into the world like winter woodsmoke tangled in pines for a moment.
I stoke the fire and remember January. I fold the clothes and remember vows. I take a nap and dream of the lake that calls for me. Love is like that too, you know?