An Ode to February
dairy of the land.
]
February awakens and is suddenly over. It flowed in like the first winds of spring and left like the crisp breeze of winter. The calls of the mother are whispered upon the land, in the buds that bulge, in the bellies that swell, in the leaves that soften and grow vibrantly green in a brown landscape. The green of the grasses and moss feel more energized, as though colour is returning to the land. When I put my head close to the ground, I can hear it crackling and popping with the rising waters of winter rains. Life rising up again. The days are blooming in a newly emerged golden light of dawn. The sun peaks more from the clouds and kisses my face like the sweetest touch from a lover. My skin laps at his rays, wanting more and more. Savouring every droplet of light. We are expanding into longer sighs and breaths of laughter. The sun shows up in the sky like the chariot of a resurrected angel. We are luminous. Our bodies shake out of winter's hibernation, we crawl out of the den lit only by candles and finally see rays of sunlight, after all this time. Our bodies stretch deliciously, move, run. Our lungs fill a little deeper. Life awakens.
February is a doorway.Â
A cool wind blows suddenly, catching the tips of the trees and swaying them in an attempt to dance the last of the winter waltz. The air holds a subtle crispness to it, as though snow is only a breath away from you. Any moment it may come cascading down onto the ground and caress your awaiting skin. Yet it holds. And the buds continue to grow and the birds still sing and the wind still blows.
Out in the distance, among the hawthorn and under the linden, I notice an arched stone pass, marked with the shaping of time. Moss grows vibrantly green along the cracks in between the crumbled mortar. Vines have latched on in the ways a beloved does upon that which he loves most. There is a sense of something old looming. Around this arch birds swirl in spirals upon the gentle breeze. The buds are full and succulent as they burst from the trees, the land appears as though it has just softened after a long frost. The smell of it wafts in the air and catches me34-’
[]] by surprise. That fragrant scent of rich, black soil.
I realize this is what it feels like. As though I am witnessing the passing off of the chalice between winter and spring. I see them in front of me, exchanging something between hands. Held together in an embrace of friends that don’t often meet, but when they do, feet sink a little deeper into fertile ground. Around them swirls the enchanting songs of newborn life. Spring is in the air, they say. And winter slowly drifts away from us. My lungs fill with newly made air. My eyes are kissed with sunlight. My feet walk bare on sopping wet earth. I feel it awaken my body as the plants awaken around me. We emerge.
February comes and goes as a passing of hands. Folding into something new.
Some other seasonal diaries:
Beautiful!