Ahead

I have both hands in the future, feeling around for spring like a blind woman searching for a treasure in a cold, dark closet. I touch her arm and tug her back to me in the middle of January, but she pulls abruptly away.

I see her up in March and April. “Come back here, please. I need you”. If I could, I would take her by the shoulders to shake her awake right now, but she won’t rouse, it’s January, she still soundly sleeps.

” I need you. Can’t you see me here, winter’s chill like vapor rising off my feet, like silence in this house?” I see her up ahead with her golden forsythia hair standing up wild in the wind, and trailing long down her back, pink columbine dangling like bells from her ears and the crocus curious and shy, peaking around her bare feet. Who wouldn’t want her, the Princess of the Seasons? She wears a scarf of jasmine. Honeysuckle drapes before her breasts. She clutches daffodils with her fists and makes the land sweet again with her warm, expansive smile.

But there are the spring storms to consider and all their drama and noise. Like the ugly cry of the heartbroken, they can be wet, messy, rowdy and loud. Like the demanding cry that screams, “Deal with this or die here!” Yet a good storm always left my garden dripping radiant and ready for more.

Soon the spring peepers will be singing winter away and giving the prelude to the Princess’s arrival again. I’ll fill a basket with seed. I’ll wipe the rain from my eyes and I’ll sow something new again. January is for looking ahead.