March is going out like a lion. The wind is blowing and the sun is cold. The old radiators rattle, and I can hear the furnace growling in the basement.
Spring came with only a small hint of color.
She can’t quite rid herself of winter’s aftertaste, but she’s trying. Today, the wind is fragile and nervous. The cold air is gasping for breath, and one day soon a warm rain will eviscerate the memory of February.
If I close my eyes I can hear the raindrops. They’re falling through greening leaves and they’re landing on a bare knee. A knee I remember kissing. Two knees I remember parting.
Rain. Dewdrops. Morning. Spring.
Maybe love can be a season.
It can be a smiling May mouth that tastes of rhubarb and strawberries. It can be the hammock beneath the ancient tree where we held each other. Whispered. Touched. Moaned.
If it rains here tomorrow, it will have rained then too. Her nose will have been wet, her hair shimmering, and her breath warm.
Rain tomorrow will mean her dress clung to her body, transparent and forgiving.
What sound does it make when you peel wet fabric from breasts and stomach? I can only hear my lips on her shoulder. The rain outside. Her quiet laugh.
It’s distant and warm and it signifies nothing.
Spring says we should kneel.
If that was young love, then this love must be newer still. If a stolen kiss and a forbidden touch were magic, then waking up next to her each morning is more so. Her silent hand and her knowing smile speak the chant and her laughter wakes up souls.
Spring says we should let her in. Let go of the cold and the ice, forgive the wind and forget the salted sidewalks.
March is going out like a lion, but we’re warm and awake. And best of all, we’ve tasted what’s to come.
And found it delicious.
Lovely