It’s March. Okay, I’m deceiving myself, but I’m sitting on my front porch steps as the sun sets and thunder storm clouds unfurl across the western sky. I’m wearing my new t-shirt my mother bought for me in honor of the Boy’s upcoming sixteenth birthday. I am luxuriating in the late spring warmth as the birds swap music with the spring peepers.
February ends tonight and with it are swept away long, exhausted evenings confined to the house where I am hypnotized by the shifting images on both the television or computer screens. Gone are days where the only way I can keep warm is to blow on my hands constantly and drink so much hog tea that I’m nauseated.
Sure, March is known for its frigid cold snaps that come without warning and kill the crocuses and daffodils. But as I try to write this post, I listen to the rumbling of a lawn mower rudely awakening from its winter hibernation.
March arrived weeks ago even if the day lengths had not recognized its presence. But I feel it’s shift in my body, in my desire to run for the mountains and strip away my February skin, leaving it the mud and to nourish the Earth.
I can feel the approaching summer months. I have been staring at my book collection and debating which books to read now and which to save for the days of oppressive summer heat when it’s just better to hide in air conditioned houses or, better yet, in a hammock under the willow tree.
The sun is coming. Hope is here. I feel the chirruping of the peepers in my veins as they herald the rain that makes the rich earth scent rise and intoxicate my senses. Life is here.
I am alive. Oh, welcome March.