I milk the warm day for all its worth, entranced by the room backlit in soft hues of sunlight. The gentle breeze breaks against the screen into tendrils of whispers against my skin. This baby blue sky is better suited for a newborn nursery than a New York March day. Nature’s kiss of spring? What of winter I wonder, he never had a chance to unfurl and stretch his muscles. His blanket covering of white was nothing but shredded effusions, thin transparent foam tapped off a brew that disappeared as quickly as it formed.
I’m not the only one confused…trees stand naked of foliage, withstanding the prodding strokes of airstream exuberance, refusing to bud in light of the impassioned warmth of the day. Mother Nature could use a few lessons in foreplay. Then again, she might have overplayed her hand wrestling with old man winter all last season.
My mind contains seasons of fodder; enough to tire of winter’s spent sorrow. He lost days, more like months to his adversary, while hard ground gave way to loam earth.
I wonder how many rows you can plow through a fertile mind, before enough wordage is planted and sown early by a torrent of doubt. Will we drown in word vomit - the overgrown algae choking off ponds of thought, reflections strangled by vines’ before they know the sun’s delirious rays? Spring may be clawing at the door, but there is still a winter storm brewing inside locked doors.
In this farmstead reality, words are hard jagged edges tearing skin, down to bone. I don’t have enough language, enough vocabulary to swab up the liquid life that drains from every pore. How is it something so painful and elusive can leave me breathless and wanting. Why not find an easier path to tread, one that soothes my empty psyche and wraps the soles of my feet with eloquence – gentle grass stained moccasins of verbiage. Some days I don’t think I have the tools to work the plantation of my mind or to climb these mountains of sentence structure, paragraphs and pages.
Boulders of doubt push me over the edge, but I can’t let go of the ledge, the valley doesn’t hold enough words to break my fall. I’m digging furrowed welts deep in the mountains face down to split nails and bloody fingers searching for gems of sanity to hang onto. I lose my grip (on sanity) and tumble head over heels down to a pussy willow tundra of open books.
My eyes flutter against the brilliant light as sunlight dances over nap swollen eyelids. The wind blows against the screen and chill air pinpricks my skin. I smile. Nothing but a dream about the soft hues of words floating around a writer’s mind on a faux spring day.
“It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.” ~ Vita Sackville-West