behindtheax

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There is a strip of light lying across the hard snow in my back yard. The fence’s shadow gives it a ruled edge; the lattice gives it a pattern of tiny grey spots. The swing set with her red seats and tan slide sits somewhat in this strip, its plastic shiny after half a winter of snow wash. The pear tree looks as dead as a tree can get without being detached from its limbs and ripped from it roots. Its gnarly fingers and bark full of bumps fall somewhat in the strip, somewhat not. Only spring can resurrect her, filling her branches with tiny white flowers. Tea in hand, the warmth of the cup giving my palms a tingle, I stand near the back window and look out into my long, thin yard. I can hear the traffic from one street over, behind the red bricks of the buildings that look down into my space. The birds are quiet, invisible, even the sharp beak starlings hide and soggy bits of bread lay in dimples in the snow. I know spring hides too, somewhere in that strip of snow-cooled light waiting for winter to find her. I believe spring would leave her hiding spot and make a dash for it, if winter wasn't such a bar sticker.

posted by mary j. @ 10:04 AM