Spring Fever

I like the weather. I like to check the weather. I like to study the radar and the hourly forecasts. I like to be out in the weather.

Today being the first day of spring, I was pleased to see we might make it up to 50 degrees F. On their way to school, both boys mentioned they might actually get to play outside today, though G still gets a little confused about how the sun works. J too, for that matter. Maybe it’s because the winters are so grey, but when the sun finally makes an appearance, they immediately assume they will be flooded with warmth. They roll down the windows in the car.

Me: It’s only 30 degrees! I’m freezing.
Them (in certain denial): We’re not cold! We need fresh air!

Thank the Lord for window locks is all I have to say.

Back to the weather. As I set out to walk I was a little surprised to see snow flurries descend from what had turned into another gloomy grey sky in the time since I had dropped the boys off at school. So, naturally, I checked the radar. What looked like a decent patch of bright blue (snow) was heading our way. I checked the hourly forecast. 0% chance of precipitation, I read. But where the sunny/cloudy/rainy/snowy icon usually declared the current conditions, I was greeted with a bright blue question mark. I have never seen such a thing. Have even the forecasters given up forecasting?

Two hours later we have a good thick inch, maybe two, on the ground. And it’s still coming down.

spring snow

But it’s not just weather, is it? Spring is a kind of fever. My self inside bounces off the walls of my body, ready to spring, run, howl, make . . . Something.

Mark Twain:

It’s spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you’ve got it, you want—oh, you don’t quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!

It’s what makes a boy take off off his shirt and ride through a cold wind in only a puffy vest, because he is Sebulba, and it is what must be done.

sebulba rides

Or, climb a tree as such.

sebulba climbs

If you are another variety of boy, you might find a rotten piece of thick trunk fallen off the neighbor’s tree and take your mallet to it, again and again,

hammer to wood 1

and again.

hammer to wood 2

If you are me, it means a poem written (in part) while walking until my hips ache. To work my soul and body in tandem. So that I can match up with myself better, and sleep so well at night.

Late winter, Early Spring
      Pain is never permanent.  –St. Teresa of Avila

Snowmelt jetsam: uncleared summer
gardens border winter
salted sidewalks—how is the dog to know
what’s concrete or earth? Disintegrating
piles defy cleanup. Forgotten Christmas
lights blink on or hang busted, not
bright. You look for it. You look for it
and when you are not looking the crocus
finally shoots. The hangdog clouds
bring snow or rain, exasperating as a child
on the borderland of reason. Should you
sing or cry? The pull between sinking
and rising is a hard stretch.
Yes brightness but why gloom?

Walk until your hips are numb with walking.
The black fluttering in the highest
branches might be birds, might be the last of
what still must fall.