March 26th, 2004
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melting


Last night as I slept the world melted.
I awoke to tiny rivers pulling bits of debris and dirt down into the sewer grate.
Spring cleaning. I listen to it rushing and falling away.
I can smell the earth again. My heart swells.
A late night walk brought all of my senses alive. Sounds of dripping, smells of new paint, a teenager laughing in the distance, wind in the trees, on my face, a dog howling, the sound of my boots on the pavement. I walked into the middle of a field surrounded by cloudy, fog dusted trees. How daring I felt being alone out there. Then I became afraid of the dark and turned back. I could have walked all night just smelling, thinking. Making up new dreams for myself. Wondering what happens in the next chapter of the book. Can I not skip ahead? I have a friend who always skips ahead to the good parts with books. I have hard time with that, what if you missed a small gem of a sentence? The one that explained everything, the one that captured your heart with a few perfectly composed words? What if the author was trying to show you something by contrasting a long slow diatribe with the powerful and exciting climactic bits?
I think there are some things we are not supposed to know until we are ready.
So I will put my mittens away. I will wait to see what is blooming under the last bits of snow. I know you are there, when the wind blows a certain way it carries your essence.
the snowdrops are blooming.

 
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